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POETIC 




OF 



JEAN INGELOW 




BOSTON: 
ROBERTS BROTHERS. 

1880. 






('-''. 



"^^, 









Author's Household Edition. 



Gift 

./Udg3 an4 Mrs. 1- R. H|tt 
June 3 r-:>36 



University Press : 
John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 



D.C. 



V/ASHlNGtON 



DEDICATION. 



To 
GEORGE K. INGELOW. 

YOER LOVING SISTER OFFERS TOT7 THESE POEMS, PARTLY 

AS AN EXPRESSION OF HER AFFECTION, PARTLY 

FOR THE PLEASURE OF CONNECTING HLli 

EFFORTS WITH YOUR NAME. 



Kensington, June 1863. 




iv CONTENTS. 



A STORY OF DOOM, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Page 

The Dreams that came true i 

Songs on the Voices of Birds. 

Introduction. — Child and Boatman 23 

The Nightingale heard by the Unsatisfied Heart 2 5 

Sand Martins 26 

A Poet in his Youth and the Cuckoo-Bird . . 29 

A Raven in a White Chine 36 

'The Warbling of Blackbirds 38 

Sea-Mews in Winter-Time 39 

Laurance 42 

Songs of the Night Watches. 

Introductory. — Evening 83 

The First Watch. — Tired 84 

The Middle Watch 91 

The Morning Watch 96 

Concluding. — Early Dawn 98 

A Story of Doom too 

Contrasted Songs. 

Sailing beyond Seas 201 

Remonstrance 203 

Song for the Night of Christ's Resurrection . 204 

Song of Margaret 211 

Song of the going away 212 

A Lily and a Lute 214 



CONTENTS, 



V 



Page 

Gladys and her Island 225 

Songs with Preludes. 

Wedlock 259 

Regret 263 

Lamentation 265 

Dominion 26S 

Friendship 271 

Winstanley 275 

THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN, &c. 

The Monitions of the Unseen i 

A Birthday Walk 33 

Not in vain I waited 37 

A Gleaning Song 39 

With a Diamond 41 

Fancy 42 

Compensation . 43 

Looking Down 44 

Married Lovers • 45 

A Winter Song 49 

Binding Sheaves 52 

Work 54 

Wishing 55 

To 56 

On the Borders of Cannock Chase 57 

The Mariner's Cave 58 

A Reverie ' 76 



vi CONTENTS. 

Page 

Defton Wood 79 

The Snowdrop Monument (in Lichfield Cathedral) 8i 

An Ancient Chess-King dug from some Ruins . . 86 

Comfort in the Night 87 

Though all Great Deeds 88 

The Long White Seam 89 

An Old Wife's Song 91 

Cold and Quiet 95 

A Snow Mountain 97 

Sleep (a Woman speaks) 98 

Promising (a Man speaks) 99 

Love 100 

Poems on the Deaths of Three Lovely Children ioi 

The Two Margarets. 

I. Margaret by the Mere Side 121 

II. Margaret in the Xebec 140 



POEMS 



DIVIDED. 

I. 

&S^§ N empty sky, a world of heather, 
iff^^ Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom ; 
<^^^3^ We two among them wading together. 
Shaking out honey, treading perfume. 

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, 
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, 

Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, 
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. 

Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, 
Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 

'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, 
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. 

We two walk till the purple dieth 

And short dry grass under foot is brown. 

But one little streak at a distance lieth 
Green like a ribbon to prank the down. 



to DIVIDED. 

II. 

Over the gniss we stepped unto it, 

And God He knoweth how blithe we were I 

Never a voice to bid us eschew it : 

Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair I 

Hey tlie green ribbon ! we kneeled beside it, 
We parted the grasses dewy and sheen ; 

Drop over drop there filtered and slided 
A tiny bright beck that trickled between. 

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, 
Light was our talk as of faery bells — 

Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us 
Down in their fortunate parallels. 

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over. 

We lapped the grass on that younglmg spring 

Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, 
And said, " Let us follow it westering." 



III. 

A dappled sky, a world of meadows. 
Circling above us the black rooks fly 

Forward, backward ; lo, their dark shadows 
Flit on the blossoming tapestry — 



DIVIDED. I , 

Flit on the beck, for her long grass parteth 

As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back ; 

And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth 

His flattering smile on her wayward track. 

Sing on ! we sing in the glorious weather 

Till one steps over the tiny strand, 
So narrow, in sooth, that still together 

On either brink we go hand in hand. 

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. 

On either margin, our songs all done, 
We move apart, while she singeth ever, 

Taking the course of the stooping sun. 

He prays, " Come over " — I may not follow ; 

I cry, " Return '* — but he cannot come : 
We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow ; 

Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb. 



IV. 



A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, 
A little talkins; of outward thinn;s : 

The careless beck is a merry dancer. 
Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. 



12 DIVIDED. 

A little pain when the beck grows wider ; 

" Cross to me now — for her wavelets swell : " 
" I may not cross," — and the voice beside her 

Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. 

No backward path ; ah ! no returning ; 

No second crossing that ripple's How : 
" Come to me now, for the west is burning ; 

Come ere it darkens ; " — " Ah, no ! ah, no ! " 

Then cries of pain, and arms oiitreaching — 
The beck grows wider and swift and deep : 

Passionate words as of one beseeching — 

The loud beck drowns them ; we walk, and weep. 



V. 



A yellow moon in splendor drooping, 
A tired queen with her state oppressed, 

Low by rushes and swordgrass stoopmg, 
Lies she soft on the waves at rest. 

The desert heavens have felt her sadness ; 

Her earth will weep her some dewy tears ; 
The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, 

And goeth stilly as soul that fears. 



DIVIDED. 

We two walk on in our grassy places 
On either marge of the moonlit flood, 

With the moon's own sadness in our faces, 
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. 



VI. 



A shady freshness, chafers whirring, 

A little piping of leaf-hid birds ; 
A flutter of -vvings, a fitful stirring, 

A cloud to the eastward sno^vy as curds. 

Bare grassy slopes, where kids are tethered 
Round valleys like nests all ferny-lined ; 

Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, 
Swell high in their freckled robes behind. 

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver. 

When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide ; 

A flashing edge for the milk-white river, 
The beck, a river — with still sleek tide. 

Broad and white, and polished as silver, 
On she goes under fruit-laden trees ; 

Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, 
And *plaineth of love's disloyalties. 



13 



14 DIVIDED. 

Glitters the dew and shines the river, 
Up comes the lily and dries her bell ; 

But two are walking apart forever, 
And wave their hands for a mute farewell. 



vn. 

A braver swell, a swifter sliding ; 

The river hasteth, her banks recede: 
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 

Bear down the lily and drown the reed. 

Stately prows are rising and bowing 
(Shouts of marinei's wimiow the air), 

And level sands for banks endowing 

The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. 

"While, O my heart ! as white sails shivei", 

And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide, 

How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, 
That moving speck on the far-olF side ! 

Farther, farther — I see it — know it — 

My eyes brim over, it melts away : 
Only my heart to my heart shall show it 

As I walk desolate day by day. 



DIVIDED. 



vin. 



IS 



And yet I know past all doubting, truly — 
A knowledge gi-eater than grief can dim — 

I know, as he loved, he will love me duly — 
Yea better — e'en better than I love him. 

And as I walk by the vast calm river, 

The awful river so dread to see, 
I say, " Tliy breadth and thy depth forever 

Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me. 





HONORS. — PART I. 

(^A Scholar is musing on his want of success.) 

strive — and fail. Yes, I did strive and fail ; 

I set mine eyes upon a certain night 
To find a certain star — and could not hail 
With them its deep-set light. 



Fool that I was ! I will rehearse my fault : 
I, wingless, thought myself on high to lift 
Among the winged — I set these feet that halt 
To run against the swift. 

And yet this man, that loved me so, can write — 

That loves me, I would say, can let me see ; 
Or fain would have me think he counts but lisht 
These Honors lost to me. 

(llie letter of Ids fiend.) 
" What are they ? that old house of .yours which gave 

Such welcomes oft to me, the sunbeams foil 
Still, down the squares of blue and white which pave 
Its hospitable hall. 



HONORS. 17 

** A brave old house ! a garden full of bees, 

Large dropping popples, £ind Queen hollyhocks, 
With butterflies for crowns — tree peonies 
And pinks and goldilocks. 

^ Go, when the shadow of your house is long 

Upon the garden — when some new-waked bird. 
Pocking and fluttering, chiips a sudden song. 
And not a leaf is stirred ; 

" But every one drops dew from either edge 

Upon its fellow, while an amber ray 
Slants up among the tree-tops like a wedge 
Of liquid gold — to play 

" Over and under them, and so to fall 

Upon that lane of water lying below — 
That piece of sky let in, that you do call 
A pond, but which I know 

*' To be a deep and wondrous world ; for 1 

Have seen the trees within it — marvellous thin_iz;s 
So thick no bird betwixt their leaves could fly 
But she would smite her wings ; — 

" Go there, I say ; stand at the water's brink. 
And shoals of spotted barbel you shall see 
Basking between the shadows — look, and think 
* This beauty is for me ; 



1 8 HONORS, 

** ' For me this freshness in the morning hours. 

For me the water's clear tranquillity ; 
For me the soft descent of chestnut flowers ; 
The cushat's cry for me. 

" ' The lovely laughter of the wind-swayed wheat 

The easy slope of yonder pastoral hill ; 

The sedgy brook whereby the red kine meet 

And wade and diink their fill/ 

" Then saunter down that terrace Avhence the sea 
All fair with wing-like sails you may discern ; 
Be glad, and say ' This beauty is for me — 
A thing to love and learn. 

" * For me the bounding in of tides ; for me 

The laying bare of sands when they retreat ; 
The purple flush of calms, the sparklmg glee 
When waves and sunshine meet.' 

" So, after gazing, homeward turn, and mount 

To that long chamber in the roof ; tliere toll 
Your heart the laid-up lore it holds to count 
And prize and ponder well. 

" The lookings onward of the race before 

It had a past to make it look behind ; 
Its reverent wonders, and its doubtings sore, 
Its adorations blind. 



HONORS. 

" The thunder of its war-songs, and the glow 

Of chants to freedom by the old world sung ; 
The sweet love cadences that lono; a^o 

Dropped from the old-world tongue. 

'* And then tliis new-world lore that takes account 

Of tangled star-dust ; maps the triple whirl 
Of blue and red and argent worlds that mouui 
And greet the Irish Earl ; 

" Or float across the tube that Herschel sways, 
Like pale-rose chaplets, or like sapphire mist ; 
Or hang or droop along the heavenly ways. 
Like scarves of amethyst. 

" O strange it is and wide the new-world lore, 

For next it treateth of our native dust ! 
Must dig out buried monsters, and explore 
The green earth's fruitful crust ; 

" Must write the story of her seething youth — 

How lizards paddled in her lukewarm seas ; 
Must show the cones she ripened, and forsooth 
Count se^isons on her trees ; 

" Must know her weight, and pry into her age. 

Count her old beach lines by their tidal swell ; 
Hei sunken mountains name, her craters gauge, 
Her cold volcanoes tell ; 



19 



^O HONORS, 

" And treat her as a ball, that one might pass 
From this hand to the other — such a ball 
As he could measure with a blade of grass, 
And say it was but small ! 

" Honors ! O friend, I pray you bear with me : 
The grass hath time to grow in meadow lands, 
And leisurely the opal murmuring sea 
Breaks on her yellow sands ; 

" And leisurely the ring-dove on her nest 

Broods till her tender chick will peck the shell ; 
And leisurely down fall from ferny crest 
The dew-drops on the well ; 

" And leisurely your life and spirit grew. 

With yet the time to grow and ripen free : 
No judgment past withdraws that boon from you. 
Nor granteth it to me. 

" Still must I plod, and still in cities moil ; 

From precious leisure, learned leisure far. 
Dull my best self with handling common soil ; 
Yet mine those honors are. 

" Mine they are called ; they are a name which means, 

' This man had steady pulses, tranquil nerves ; 
Here, as in other fields, the most he gleans 
Who works and never swerves. 



HONORS. 

** * We measure not his mind ; we cannot tell 
What lieth under, over, or beside 
The test we put him to ; he doth excel, 
We know, where he is tried ; 

" ' But, if he boast some farther excellence — 
Mind to create as well as to attain ; 
To sway his peers by golden eloquence. 
As wind doth shift a fane ; 

" * To sing among the poets — w^e are nought : 
We cannot drop a line into that sea 
And read its fathoms off, nor gauge a thought, 
Nor map a simile. 

" ' It may be of all voices subhmar 

The only one he echoes we did try ; 
We may have come upon the only star 
That t^vinkles in his sky.' 

** And so it was with me." 

O false my friend ! 
False, false, a random charge, a blame undue ; 
Wrest not fair reasoning to a crooked end : 
False, false, as you are true ! 

But I read on : " And so it was with me ; 

Your golden constellations lying apart 
They neither hailed nor greeted heartily, 
Kor noted on their chart. 



21 



22 HONORS. 

" Ajid jet to you and not to me belong 

Those finer instincts that, like second sight 
And hearing, catch creation's undersong, 
And see by inner light. 

" You are a well, whereon I, gazing, see 

Reflections of the upper heavens — a well 
From whence come deep, deep echoes up to me - 
Some underwave's low swell. 

** I cannot soar into the heights you show, 

Nor dive among the deeps that you reveal ; 
But it is much that high things are to know. 
That deep things ake to feel. 

" 'T is yours, not mine, to pluck out of your breast 
Some human truth, whose workings recondite 
"Were unattired in words, and manifest 
And hold it forth to light 

" And cry, * Behold this thing that I have found.* 
And though they knew not of it till that day, 
Nor should have done with no man to expound 
Its meanuig, yet they say, 

" * We do accept it : lower than the §hoals 
We skim, this diver went, nor did create, 
But find it for us deeper in our souls 
Than we can penetrate.* 



HONORS. 23 

^ You were to me the world's interpreter, 

Tlie man that taught me Nature's unknown tongue, 
And to the notes of her wild dulcimer 
First set sweet words, and sung. 

" And what am I to you ? A steady hand 
To hold, a steadfast heart to trust withal ; 
Merely a man that loves you, and will stand 
By you, whate'er befall. 

" But need we praise his tendance tutelar 

Who feeds a flame that warms him ? Yet *t is true 
I love you for the sake of w^hat you are, 
And not of what you do: — 

" As heaven's high twins, whereof in Tyrian blue 
The one revolveth : through his course immense 
Might love his fellow of the damask hue, 
For like, and difference. 

** For different pathways evermore decreed 
To intersect, but not to interfere ; 
For common goal, two aspects, and one speed. 
One centre and one year ; 

" For deep affmities, for dra^^^ngs strong. 

That by their nature each must needs exert ; 
For loved alliance, and for union long. 

That stands before desert. • 



24 HONORS. 

** And yet desert makes brighter not the less, 
«For nearest his own star he shall not fail 
To thhik those rays unmatched for nobleness, 
That distance counts but pale. 

** Be pale afar, since still to me you shine, 

And must while Nature's eldest law shall hold ; " — 
Ah, there 's the thought wliich makes his random line 
Dear as refined gold ! 

Then shall I drink tliis draft of oxymel, 

Part sweet, part sharp ? Myself o'erprized to know 
Is shai-p ; the cause is sweet, and truth to tell 
Few would that cause forego, 

Which is, that this of all the men on earth 

Doth love me well enough to count me great — 
To think my soul and his of equal girth — 

liberal estimate ! 

And yet it is so ; he is bound to me, 

For human love makes aliens near of kin ; 
By it I rise, there is equality : 

1 rise to thee, my twin. 

*•* Take courage " — courage ! ay, my purple peer, 
I will take courage ; for thy Tyrian rays 
Refresh me to the heart, and strangely dear 
And healing is thy praise. 



HONORS. 

" Take couracre," quoth he, " and respect the mind 

Your Maker gave, for good your fate fulfil ; 
The fate round many hearts your own to wind." 
Twin soul, I will ! I will ! 



25 




HONORS. — PART II. 



{The Answer.) 




S one who, journeying, checks the rein in haste 
Because a chasm dotli yawn across his way 
Too wide for leaping, and too steeply faced 
For climber to essay — 



As such an one, being brought to sudden stand. 

Doubts all his foregone path if 't were tlie true, 
And turns to this and then to the other hand 
As knowing not what to do, — 

So I, being checked, am w^ith my path at strife 

Which led to such a chasm, and there doth end. 
F'alse path ! it cost me priceless years of life, 
My well-beloved friend. 

There fell a flute when Ganymede went up — 

The flute that he was wont to play upon : 
It dropped beside the jonquil's milk-white cup, 
And freckled cowslips wan — 



HONORS. 27 

Dropped from his heedless hand when, dazed and mute, 

He sailed upon the eagle's quivering wing, 
Aspiring, panting — aye, it dropped — the flute 
Erewhile a cherished thing. 

Among the delicate grasses and the bells 

Of crocuses that spotted a rill side, 
I picked up such a flute, and its clear swella 
To my young lips replied. 

I played thereon, and its response was sweet ; 

But lo, they took from me that solacing reed. 
" shame ! " they said ; " such music is not meet ; 
Go up like Ganymede. 

" Go up, despise these humble grassy things, 
Sit on the golden edge of yonder cloud." 
Alas ! though ne'er for me those eagle wings 
Stooped from their eyry proud. 

My flute ! and flung away its echoes sleep ; 
But as for me, my life-pulse beateth low ; 
And like a last-year's leaf enshrouded deep 
Under the drifting snow, 

Or like some vessel wrecked upon the sand 

Of torrid swamps, with all her merchandise. 
And left to rot betwixt the sea and land, 
My helpless spirit lies. 



28 HONORS. 

Rueing. T thir.k for what then was I made ; 

What end appointed for — what use designed ? 
Now let me right this heart that was bewrayed — 
Unveil these eyes gone blind. 

My well-beloved friend, at noon to-day 

Over our cliffs a white mist lay unfurled, 
So thick, one standing on their brink might say, 
Lo, here doth end the world. 

A white abyss beneath, and nought beside ; 

Yet, bark ! a cropping sound not ten feet down . 
Soon I could trace some browsing lambs that Lied 
Through rock-paths cleft and brown. 

And here and there green tufts of grass pterotl throng, 

Salt lavender, and sea thrift ; then bt-noXcl 
The mist, subsiding ever, bared to view 
A beast of giant mould. 

She seemed a great sea-monster ij^pg content 

With all her cubs about her ; but deep — deep — 
The subtle mist went floating ; its descent 
Showed the world's end was steep. 

It shook, it melted, shaking more, till, lo, 

The sprawling monster was a rock ; her brood 
Were boulders, whereon sea-mews white as snow 
Sat watching for their food. 



HONORS, 29 

Then once again it sank, its day was done : 
Part rolled away, part vanished utterly, 
And glimmering softly under the white sun, 
Behold ! a great white sea. 

O that the mist which veileth my To-come 

Would so dissolve and yield unto mine eyes 
A worthy path ! I 'd count not wearisome 
Long toil, nor enterprise, 

But strain to reach it ; ay, with wrestlings stout 

And hopes that even in the dark will grow 
(Like plants in dungeons, reaching feelers out), 
And ploddings wary and slow. 

Is there such path already made to fit 

The measure of my foot ? It shall atone 
For much, if I at length may light on it 
And know it for mine own. 

But is there none ? why, then, 't is more than well : 

And glad at heart myself will hew one out, 
Let me be only sure ; for, sooth to tell, 
The sorest dole is doubt — 

Doubt, a blank t^^ ilight of the heart, which mars 

All vSweetest colors hi its dimness same ; 
A soul-mist, through whose rifts famihar stars 
Beholding, we misname. 



20 HONORS. 

A ripple on the inner sea, which shakes 

Those images that on its breast reposed ; 
A fold upon a wind-swayed flag, that breaks 
The motto it disclosed. 

doubt ! doubt ! I know my destiny ; 

I feel thee fluttering bird-like in my breast ; 

1 cannot loose, but I will sing to thee, 

And flatter thee to rest. 

There is no certainty, " my bosom's guest," 

No proving for the things whereof ye wot ; 
For, like the dead to sight unmanifest, 
They are, and they are not. 

But surely as they are, for God is truth, 

And as they are not, for we saw them die, 
So surely from the heaven drops light for youth, 
If youth will walk thereby. 

And can I see this light ? It may be so ; 

" But see it thus and thus," my fathers said. 
The living do not rule this world ; ah no ! 
It is the dead, the dead. 

Shall I be slave to every noble soul. 

Study the dead, and to their spirits bend ; 
Or learn to read my own heart's folded scroll, . 
And make self-rule my end ? 



HONORS. 31 

Thought from loithout — O shall I take on tnist, 

And life from others modelled steal or -vvin ; 
Or shall I heave to light, and clear of rust 
My true life from within ? 

O. let me be myself ! But where, O where, 
Under this heap of precedent, this mound 
Of customs, modes, and maxims, cumbrauce rare, 
Shall the Myself be found? 

O thou Myself, thy fathers thee debarred 

None of their wisdom, but their folly came 
Therewith ; they smoothed thy path, but made it hard 
For thee to quit the same. 

With glosses they obscured God's natural truth, 

And with tradition tarnished His revealed ; 
With vain protections they endangered youth, 
With layings bare they sealed. 

What aileth thee, myself? Alas ! thy hands 
Are tired with old opinions — heir and son, 
Tliou hast inherited thy father's lands 
And all his debts thereon. 

that some power would give me Adam's eyes! 

for the straight simplicity of Eve ! 
For I see nought, or grow, poor fool, too wise 
With seeing to believe. 



32 HONORS. 

Exemplars may be heaped until they hide 

The rules that they were made to render plain 
Love may be watched, her nature to decide, 
Until love's self doth wane. 



Ah me ! and when forgotten and foregone 
We leave the learning of departed days, 
And cease the generations past to con, 
Their wisdom and their ways, — 

When fain to learn we lean into the dark, 
And grope to feel the floor of the abyss, 
Or find the secret boundary lines which mark 
Where soul and matter kiss — 

Fair world ! these puzzled souls of ours grow weak 
With beating their bruised wings against the rim 
That bounds their utmost flying, when they seek 
The distant and the dim. 



We pant, we strain like birds against their wires ; 
Are sick to reach the vast and the beyond ; — 
And what avails, if still to our desires 
Those far-off gulfs respond ? 

Contentment comes not therefore ; still there lies 

An outer distance when the first is hailed, 
And still forever yawns before our eyes 
An UTMOST — that is veiled. 



HONORS. 33 

Searching those edges of the universe, 

We leave the central fields a fallow part ; 

To feed the eye more precious things amerce, 

And starve the darkened heart. 

Then all goes wrong : the old foundations rock ; 
One scorns at him of old who gazed unshod ; 
One striking with a pickaxe thinks the shock 
Shall move the seat of God. 

A little way, a very little way 

(Life is so short), they dig into the rind, 
And they are very sorry, so they say, — 
Sorry for what they find. 

But truth is sacred — ay, and must be told : 

There is a story long beloved of man ; 
We must forego it, for it will not hold — 
Nature had no such plan. 

And then, if " God hath said it," some should cry, 

We have the story from the fountain-head : 
Why, then, what better than the old reply. 
The first " Yea, hath God said ? " 

The garden, O the garden, must it go, 

Source of our hope and our most dear regret ? 
The ancient story, must it no more show 
How man may win it yet ? 
8 



34 HONORS. 

And all upon the Titan child's decree. 

The baby science, born but yesterday, 
That in its rash unlearned infancy 

With shells and stones at play, 

And delving in the outworks. of this world. 

And little crevices that it could reach, 
Discovered certain bones laid up, and furled 
Under an ancient beach. 

And other waifs that lay to its young mind 

Some fathoms lower than they ought to lie, 
By gain whereof it could not fail to find 
Much proof of ancientry. 

Hints at a Pedigree withdrawn and vast, 
■ Terrible deeps, and old obscurities, 
Or soulless origin, and twilight passed 
In the primeval seas, 

Whereof it tells, as thinking it hath been 
Of truth not meant for man inheritor ; 
As if this knowledge Heaven had ne'er foreseen 
And not provided for ! 

Knowledge ordained to live ! although the fate 

Of much that went before it was — to di-:^, 
And be called ignorance by such as wait 
Till tlie next drift comes by. 



HONORS. 35 

O marvellous credulity of man ! 

If God indeed kept secret, couldst thou know 
Or follow up the mighty Artisan 
Unless He willed it so ? 

And canst thou of the Maker think in sooth 

That of the Made He shall be found at fault, 
And dream of wresting from Him hidden truth 
By force or by assault ? 

But if He keeps not secret — if thine eyes 

He openeth to His wondrous work of late — 
Think how in soberness thy wisdom lies, 
And have the grace to wait. 

Wait, nor against the half-learned lesson fret, 

Nor chide at old belief as if it erred, 
Because thou canst not reconcile as yet 
The Worker and the word. 

Either the Worker did in ancient days 

Give us the word, His tale of love and might ; 
(And if in truth He gave it us, who says 
He did not give it right ?) 

Or else He gave it not, and then indeed 

We know not if he is — by whom our years 
Ai'e portioned, who the orphan mouiis doth lead, 
And the unfathered spheres. 



36 HONORS. 

We sit unowned upon our burial sod 

And know not whence we come or whose we be, 
Comfortless mourners for the mount of God, 
The rocks of Calvary : 

Bereft of heaven, and of the long-loved page 

Wrought us by some who thought with death to co])c 
Despairing comforters, from age to age 
Sowing the seeds of hope : 

Gracious deceivers, who have lifted us 

Out of the slough where passed our unknown youth 
Beneficent liars, who have gifted us 
With sacred love of truth ! 

Farewell to them : yet pause ere thou unmoor 

And set thine ark adrift on unknown seas ; 
How wert thou bettered so, or more secure 
Thou, and thy destinies ? 

And if thou searchest, and art made to fear 
Facing of unread riddles dark and bard, 
And mastering not their majesty austere, 
Their meaning locked and barred ; 

How would it make the weight and wonder less. 

If, lifted from immortal shoulders down, 
Tlie worlds were cast on seas of emptiness 
In realms without a crown, 



HONORS. 37 

And (if there were no God) were left to rue 

Dominion of the air and of the fire ? 
Then if there be a God, " Let God be true, 
And every man a liar." 

But as for me, I do not speak as one 

That is exempt : I am with life at feud : 
My heart reproacheth me, as there were none 
Of so small gratitude. 

Wherewith shall I console thee, heart o' mine, 

And still thy yearning and resolve thy doubt ? 
That which I know, and that which I divine, 
Alas ! have left thee out. 

I have aspired to know the might of God, 
As if the story of His love was furled. 
Nor sacred foot the grasses e'er had trod 
Of this redeemed world : — 

Have sunk my thoughts as lead into the deep, 

To grope for that abyss whence evil grew. 
And spirits of ill, with eyes that cannot weep, 
Hungry and desolate flew ; 

As if their legions did not one day crowd 
, The death-pangs of the Conquering Good to see ! 
As if a sacred head had never bowed 
In death for man — for me ; 



38 HONORS. 

Nor ransomed back the souls beloved, the sons 

Of men, from thraldom with the nether kings 
In that dark country where those evil ones 
Trail their unhallowed wings. 

And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee, 
And didst Thou take to heaven a human brow ? 
Dost plead with man's voice by tlie mjirvellous sea ? 
Art Thou his kinsman now ? 

O God, O kinsman loved, but not enough ! 

man, with eyes majestic after death. 
Whose feet have toiled along our pathways rough, 
Whose lips drawn human breath ! 

By that one likeness which is ours and Thine, 
By that one nature which doth hold us kin. 
By that high heaven where, sinless, Thou dost shine 
To draw us sinners in, 

By Thy last silence in the judgment-hall, 

By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree. 
By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall, 
I pray Thee visit me. 

Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away, 

Die ere the guest adored she entertain — 
Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day 
Should miss Thy heavenly reign. 



HONORS. 39 

Come, weary-eyed from seekiug in the night 

Thy wanderers strayed upon the pathless wold, 
Who wounded, dying, cry to Thee for light, 
And cannot Und their fold. 

And deign, Watcher, with the sleepless brow, 

Pathetic in its yearning — deign reply: 

Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou 

Wouldst take from such as I ? 

Are there no briers across Thy pathway thrust ? 

Are there no thorns that compass it about ? 
Nor any stones that Thou wUt deign to trust 
My hands to gather out ? 

O if Thou wilt, and if such bliss might be, 
It were a cure for doubt, regi'et, delay — 
Let my lost pathway go — what aileth me ? — 
There is a better way. 

What though unmarked the happy workman toil, 

Ajid break unthanked of man the stubborn clod ? 
It is enough, for sacred is the soil. 
Dear are the hills of God. 

Far better in its place the lowliest bird 

Should sing aright to Him the lowdiest song, 
Than that a seraph strayed should take the word 
And sing His glory wrong. 



40 HONORS. 

Friend, it is time to work. I say to thee, 

Thou dost all earthly good by much excel ; 
Thou and God's blessing are enough for me: 
My work, my work — farewell ! 





REQUIESCAT IN PACE! 

MY heart, my heart is sick awishing and awaiting : 
The lad took up his knapsack, he went, he 
went his way ; 
And I looked on for his coming, as a prisoner through the 
grating 
Looks and longs and longs and wishes for its opening 
day. 

On the wild purple mountains, all alone with no other, 
The strong terrible mountauis he longed, he longed 
to be; 
And he stooped to kiss his father, and he stooped to kiss 
his mother, 
And till I said, "Adieu, sweet Sir," he quite forgot me. 

He wrote of their white raiment, the ghostly capes that 
screen them, 
Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder-re^vts 
and scars, 
And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atween 
them, 
And fields, where grow God's gentian bells, Jfcad His 
crocus stars. 



42 REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 

He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, that drop on them like 
fleeces, 
And make green their fir forests, and feed their mosses 
hoar ; 
Or come sailing up the valleys, and get wrecked and go 
to pieces. 
Like sloops against their cruel strength : tlien he wrote 
no more. 

O the silence that came next, the patience and long" 
aching ! 
Tliey never said so much as " He was a dear loved 
son ; " 
Not the father to the mother moaned, that dreary stillness 
breaking : 
"Ah! wherefore did he leave us so — this, our only one." 

They sat witliin, as waiting, until the neighbors prayed 
them, 
At Cromer, by the sea-coast, 't were peace and change 
to be ; 
And to Cromer, in their patience, or that urgency afFrayea 
them. 
Or because the tidings tarried, they came, and took 
me. 

It was three months and over since the dear lad had 
started : 
On the gi-een downs at Cromer I sat to see the view : 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 43 

On an open space of herbage, where the ling and fern 
had parted, 
Betwixt the tall white lighthouse towers, the old and 
the new. 

Below me lay the wide sea, the scarlet sun was stoop. 

And he dyed the waste water, as with a scarlet 

dye; 
And he dyed the lighthouse towers; every bird with white 

wing swooping 
Took his colors, and the cliffs did, and the yawning sky. 

Over grass came that strange flush, and over ling and 
heather. 
Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over Cromer 
town ; 
And each filmy cloudlet crossing drifted like a scarlet 
feather 
Torn from the folded wings of clouds, while he settled 
down. 

Wlien I looked, I dared not sigh : — In the light of God's 
splendor. 
With His daily blue and gold, who am I ? wliat am I ? 
But that passion and outpouring seemed an awful sign 
and tender. 
Like the blood of the Redeemer, shown on earth and 
sky. 



44 REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 

for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt and trouble ! 
On that sultry August eve trouble had made me meek ; 

1 was tired of my sorrow — Oso faint, for it was double 
In the weight of its oppression, that I could not 

speak ! 

And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed eyes were 
feeding, 
And the dull ears with murmur of water satisfied ; 
But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my thoughts and 
fancy leading 
Across the bounds of waking life to the other side. 

And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste waters , 
turning. 
And saw the flakes of scarlet from wave to, wave 
tossed on ; 
And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap of gold 
lay burning 
On the clear remote sea reaches ; for the sun was 
gone. 

V 

Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across the still 
water — 
A question as I took it, for soon an answer came 
From the tall white ruined lighthouse : " If it be the old 
man's daughter 
That we wot of," ran the answer, " what then — who's 
to blame ? " 



EEQUIESCAT IN PACE. 45 

I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm- 
broken : 
A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched out 
to sea; 
Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff the bird had 
spoken, 
And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked of me, 

I was the old man's daughter, the bird went on to name 
him; 
" He loved to count the starlings as he sat in the 
sun; 
Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did not 
shame him: 
Ay, the old man was a good man — and his work 
was done." 

The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moon de- 
parted. 
Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red wave 
she crossed. 
And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent 
dipped and darted, 
Flying on, again was shouting, but the words were lost 

I said, " That thing is hooded ; I could hear but that 
floweth 
The great hood below its mouth:" then the bird made 
reply. 



46 REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 

" If they know not, more's the pity, for the little shrew- 
mouse knoweth, 
And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead and 
pye." 

And he stooped to whet his beak on the stones of the 
coping ; 
And when once more the shout came, in querulous 
tones he spake, 
** What I said was ' more's the pity ; * if the heart be 
long past hoping, 
Let it say of death, ' I know it,' or doubt on and break. 

" Men must die — one dies by day, and near him moans 
his mother. 
They dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it full 
loth: 
And one dies about the midnight, and the wind moans, 
and no other. 
And the snows give him a burial — and God loves 
them both. 

" The first hath no advantage — it shall not soothe his 
slumber 
That a lock of his brown hair his flitlier aye si i all 
keep ; 
For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall nought his 
quiet cumber. 
That in a golden mesh of his callow eaglets sleep. 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 



47 



** Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite and glead 
know it, 
And the lad's father knew it, and the lad, the lad too ; 
It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds 
blow it, 
And he met it on the mountain — why then nuikr 
ado?" 

With that he spread his wliite wings, and swept across 
the water. 
Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all went down ; 
And they laughed as they went under, and I woke, *' the 
old man's daughter." 
And looked across the slope of grass, and at Cromer 
town. 

And I said, " Is that the sky, all gray and silver-suited ? " 

And I thought, " Is that the sea that lies so white and 

wan ? 

I have dreamed as I remember : give me time — I vvas 

reputed 

Once to have a steady courage — O, I fear 'tis gone ! " 

And I said, "Is this my heart? if it be, low *tis beating. 

So he hes on the mountain, hard by the eagles' brood ; 

I have had a dream this evening, while the white and gold 

were fleeting. 

But I need not, need not tell it — where would be the 

good? 



48 REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 

" Where would be the good to them, his father and his 
mother? ^ 

For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to them 
still. 
While a lonely watch-fire smoulders, who its dying red 
would smother, 
That gives what little light there is to a darksome hill? ' 

I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter. 

But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. 
What can wringing of the hands do that which is ordained 
to alter ? 
He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he would 
ne'er come down. 

But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but love 
thee: 
O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed ! 
From my breast I'd give thee burial, pluck the down and 
spread above thee ; 
I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain head. 

Fare thee well, my love of loves! would I had died 
before thee! 
O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might flow. 
Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my beinp; 
o'er thee. 
And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow with 
snow ! 




SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

Mother. 
ELL, Frances. 

Frances. 
Well, good mother, how are you ? 

M. I'm hearty, lass, but warm ; the weather's warm : 
I thiuk 'tis mostly warm on market days. 
I met with George behind the mill : said he, 
" Mother, go in and rest awhile." 

F. Ay, do. 

And stay to supper ; put your basket down. 

M. Why, now, it is not heavy ? 

F. Willie, man. 

Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, no! 
Some call good churning luck ; but, luck or skill, 
Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet 
As if 't was Christmas. So you sold it all ? 

M. All but this pat that 1 put by for George ; 
He always loved my butter. 

F. That he did. 

M. And has your speckled hen brought off her brood ? 

F. Not yet ; but that old duck I told you of, 
She hatched eleven out of twelve to-day. 



50 SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

Child, And, Granny, they're so yellow. 

M. Ay, my lad, 

Yellow as gold — yellow as Willie's hair. 

G. They're all mine, Granny, father says they're mine. 

M. To think of that I 

F. Yes, Granny, only thiiik I 

Why, father means to sell them when they're fat, 
/uid put the money in the savings-bank, 
And all against our Willie goes to school : 
But Willie would not touch them — no, not he ; 
He knows that father would be angry else. 

C. But I want one to play with — O, I want 
A little yellow duck to take to bed ! 

M. What ! would ye rob the poor old mother, then ? 

F. Now, Granny, if you'll hold the babe awhile ; 

'Tis time I took up Willie to his crib. 

\_Exit Frances 

\_Mother sings to the infant.^ 

Playing on the virginals. 

Who but I ? Sae glad, sae free. 
Smelling for all cordials, 

The green mint and marjorie ; 
Set among the budding broom, 

lungcup and daflbdilly ; 
By my side I made him room : 

O love my WiUie! 

" Like me, love me, girl o' gowd," 
Sang he to my nimble strain ; 
Sweet his ruddy lips overflowed 
Till my heartstrings rang again : 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 51 

By the broom, the bonny broom, 

liingcup and daffodilly, 
In my heart I made him room: 

O love my Willie ! 



*' Pipe and play, dear heart," sang he, 

" I must go, yet pipe and play ; 
Soon I'll come and ask of thee 

For an answer yea or nay ; " 
And I waited till the flocks 

Panted in yon waters stilly, 
And the corn stood in the shocks : 

love my Willie I 

I thought first when thou didst come 

1 would wear the ring for thee. 
But the year told out its sum, 

Ere again thou sat'st by me ; 
Thou hadst nought to ask that day 

By kingcup and daflfodiily ; 
I said neither yea nor nay : 

O love my Willie ! 

Enter George. 

George. Well, mother, 'tis a fortnight now, or more. 
Since I set eyes on you. 

M. Ay, George, my dear, 

1 reckon you've been busy : so have we. 

G. And how does father ? 

M, He gets through his work, 

But he grows stiff, a little stiff, my dear ; 
He's not so young, you know, by twenty years 



52 SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

As I am — not so young by twenty years, 
And I'm past sixty. 

G. Yet he's hale and stout, 

And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe ; 
And seems to take a pleasure in his cows, 
And a pride, too. 

M. And well he may, my dear. 

G. Give me the little one, he tires your arm ; 
He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue, 
He almost wears our lives out with his noise 
Just at day-dawning, when we wish to sleep. 
What ! you young villain, would you clench your fist 
In father's carls ? a dusty father, sure, 
And you're as clean as wax. 

Ay, you may laugh ; 
But if you live a seven years more or so. 
These hands of yours will all be brown and scratched 
With climbing after nest-eggs. They'll go down 
As many rat-holes as are round the mere ; 
And you'll love mud, all manner of mud and dirt. 
As your father did afore you, and you'll wade 
After young water-birds ; and you'll get bogged 
Setting of eel-traps, and you'll spoil your clothes. 
And come home torn and dripping : then, you know, 
You'll feel the stick — you'll feel the stick, my lad ! 

Enter Frances. 
F, You should not talk so to the blessed babe — 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 53 

How can you, George ? why, he may be in heaven 
Before the tune you tell of. 

M. Look at him : 

So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes ! 
He thrives, my dear. 

F. Yes, that he does, thank God 

My children are all strong. 

M. 'Tis much to say ; 

Sick children fret their mother's hearts to shreds, 
And do no credit to their keep nor care. 
Where is your little lass ? 

F. Your daughter came 
And begged her of us for a week or so. 

M. Well, well, she might be wiser, that she might, 
For she can sit at ease and pay her way ; 
A sober husband, too — a cheerful man — 
Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her ; 
Yet she is never easy, never glad, 
Because she has not children. Well-a-day ! 
If she could know how hard her mother worked, 
And what ado I had, and what a moil 
With my half-dozen ! Children, ay, forsooth, 
They bring their own love with them when they come, 
But if they come not there is peace and rest ; 
riie pretty lambs ! and yet she cries for more : 
Why the world 's full of them, and so is heaven — 
They are not rare. 

G, No, mother, not at all ; 



54 SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

But Hannah must not keep our Fanny long — 
She spoils her. 

M. Ah ! folks spoil their children now ; 

Wlien I was a young woman 'twas not so; 
"We made our children fear us, made them work, 
Kept them in order. 

G. Were not proud of them — 

Eh, mother ? 

M. I set store by mine, 'tis true, 

But then I had good cause. 

G, My lad, d'ye hear ? 

Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud ! 
She never spoilt your father — no, not she. 
Nor ever made him sing at harvest-home, 
Nor at the forge, nor at the baker's shop. 
Nor to the doctor while she lay abed 
>Sick, and he crept upstairs to share her broth. 

M. Well, well, you were my youngest, and, what's more. 
Your father loved to hear you sing — he did, 
Although, good man, he could not tell one tune 
From the other. 

F, No, he got his voice from you : 
Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep. 

G. What must I sing ? 

F. The ballad of the man 
That is so shy he cannot speak his mind. 

G. Ay, of the purple grapes and crimson leaves ; 
But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet oif. 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 55 

And, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in : 
Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs, 
And let's to supper shortly. 

ISings.'] 
My neighbor White — we met to-day — 
He always had a cheerful way, 

As if he breathed at ease ; 
My neighbor White lives down the glade, 
And I live higher, in the shade 
Of my old walnut-trees. 

So many lads and lasses small. 

To feed them all, to clothe them all, 

Must surely tax his wit ; 
I see his thatch when I look out, 
His branching roses creep about, 

And vines half smother it. 

There white-haired urchins climb his eaves, 
And little watch-fires heap with leaves. 

And milky filberts hoard ; 
And there his oldest daughter stands 
With downcast eyes and skilful hands 

Before her ironing-board. 

She comforts all her mother's days, 
And with her sweet obedient ways 

She makes her labor hght ; > 

So sweet to hear, so fair to see ! 
O, she is much too good for me, 

That lovely Lettice White ! 

'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool ! 
With that same lass I went to school — 



56 SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

I then was great and wise ; 
She read upon an easier book. 
And I — I never cared to look 

Into her shy blue eyes. 

And now I know they must be there. 
Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair 

That will not raise their rim : 
If maids be shy, he cures who can ; 
But if a man be shy — a man — 

Why then the worse for him ! 

My mother cries, " For such a lad 
A wife is easy to be had 

And always to be found ; 
A finer scholar scarce can be. 
And for a foot and leg," says she, 

" He beats the country round I 

" My handsome boy must stoop his head 
To clear her door whom he would wed.* 
Weak praise, but fondly sung ! 
" O mother ! scholars sometimes fail — 
And what can foot and leg avail 
To him that wants a tongue ? " 

When by her ironing-board I sit, 
Her little sisters round me flit. 

And bring me forth their store ; 
Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue, 
And small sweet apples bright of hue 

And crimson to the core. 

But she abideth silent, fair, 
All shaded 1 y lip* flaxen hair 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 57 

The blushes come and go ; 
I look, and I no more can speak 
Than the red sun that on her cheek 

Smiles as he lieth low. 

Sometimes the roses by the latch 
Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch 

Come sailing down like birds ; 
When from their drifts her board I clear. 
She thanks me, but I scarce can hear 

The shyly uttered words. 

Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White 
By daylight and by candlelight 

When we two were apart. 
Some better day come on apace. 
And let me tell her face to face, 

" Maiden, thou hast my heart." 

How gently rock yon poplars high 
Against the reach of primrose sky 

With heaven's pale candles stored ! 
She sees them all, sweet Lettice White ; 
I'll e'en go sit again to-night 

Beside her ironing-board I 

Wliy, you young rascal ! who would think it, now? 
No sooner do I stop than you look up. 
What would you have your poor old father do ? 
'Twas a brave song, long-winded, and not loud. 
M. He heard the bacon sputter on the fork, 
And heard his mother's step across the floor. 
Where did you get that song? — 'tis new to me. 



58 SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

G. I bought it of a peddler. 
M. Did you so ? 

Well, you were always for the love-songs, George. 

F. My dear, just lay his head upon your arm. 
And if you'll pace and sing two minutes more 
He needs must sleep — his eyes are full of sleep. 

G. Do you sing, mother. 

F. Ay, good mother, do ; 

*Tis long since we have heard you. 

M. Like enough ; 

I'm an old woman, and the girls and lads 
I used to sing to sleep o'ertop me now. 
What should I sing for ? 

G. Why, to pleasure us. 

Sing in the chimney comer, where you sit, 
And I'll pace gently with the little one. 

\_Mother sings.'] 
When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, 

My old sorrow wakes and cries, 
"For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, 

And a scarlet sun doth rise ; 
Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, 

And the icy founts run free, 
And the bergs begin to bow their heads, 

And plunge, and sail in the sea. 

O my lost love, and my own, own love. 

And my love that loved me so ! 
Is there never a chink in the world above 

Where they listen for words from below ? 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

JH&y, 1 spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, 

I remember all that I said, 
And now thou wilt hear me no more — no more 

Till the sea gives up her dead. 

Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail 

To the ice-fields and the snow ; 
Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail. 

And the end I could not know ; 
How could I tell I should love thee to-day, 

Whom that day I held not dear ? 
How could I know I should love thee away 

When I did nx)t love thee anear ? 

We shaE walk no more tlu-ough the sodden plain 

With the faded bents o'erspread, 
We shall stand no more by the seething main 

While the dark wrack drives o'erhead ; 
We shall part no more in the wind and the rain, 

Where thy last farewell was said ; 
But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again 

When the sea gives up her dead. 

F. Asleep at last, and time he was, indeed. 
Turn back the cradle-quilt, and lay him in ; 
A.nd, mother, will you please to draw your chair ? — 
The supper's ready. 



59 




SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

*HILE ripening corn grew thick and deep, 
g And here and there men stood to reap, 
One morn I put my heart to sleep, 
And to the lanes I took my wiay. 
The goldfinch on a thistle-head 
Stood scattering seedlets while she fed ; 
The wrens their pretty gossip spread, 
Or joined a random roundelay. 

On hanging cobwebs shone the dew, 
And thick the wayside clovers grew ; 
The feeding bee had much to do, 

So fast did honey-drops exude : 
She sucked and murmured, and was gone, 
And lit on other blooms anon. 
The while I learned a lesson on 

The source and sense of quietude. 

For sheep-bells chiming from a wold, 
Or bleat of lamb within its fold. 
Or cooing of love-legends old 

To dove-wives make not quiet less ; 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 6l 

Ecstatic chirp of winged thing, 
Or bubbling of the water-spring, 
Are sounds that more than silence bring 
Itself and its delightsomeness. 

While thus I went to gladness fain, 
I had but walked a mile or twain 
Before my heart woke up again. 

As di'eaming she had slept too late ; 
The morning freshness that she viewed 
With her own meanings she endued. 
And touched with her solicitude 

The natures she did meditate. 

" If quiet is, for it I wait ; 
To it, ah ! let me wed my fate. 
And, like a sad wife, supplicate 

My roving lord no more to flee ; 
If leisure is — but, ah ! 'tis not — 
*Tis long past praying for, God wot ; 
The fashion of it men forgot, 

About the age of chivalry. 

" Sweet is the leisure of the bird ; 
She craves no time for work deferred ; 
Her wings are not to aching stuTed 

Providing for her helpless ones. 
Fair is the leisure of the wheat ; 
All night the damps about it fleet ; 



62 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

All day it basketh in the heat, 
And grows, and whispers orisons. 

" Grand is the leisure of the earth ; 
She gives her happy myriads birth, 
And after harvest fears not dearth, 

But goes to sleep in snow-wreaths dim. 
Dread is the leisure up above 
The while He sits whose name is Love, 
And waits, as Noah did, for the dove, 

To wit if she would fly to him. 

*' He waits for us, while, houseless things, 
We beat about with bruised wings 
On the dark floods and water-springs. 

The ruined world, the desolate sea ; 
With open windows from the prime 
All night, all day, He waits sublime, 
Until the fulness of the time 

Decreed from His eternity. 

" Where is our leisure ? — give us rest. 

Where is the quiet we possessed ? 

We must have had it once — were blest 

With peace whose phantoms yet entice. 
Sorely the mother of mankind 
Longed for the garden left behind ; 
For we still prove some yearnings blind 

Liherited from Paradise." 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 63 

" Hold, heart ! " I cried ; " for trouble sleeps ; 
I hear no sound of aught that weeps ; 
I will not look into thy deeps — 

I am afraid, I am afraid ! " 
" Afraid ! " she saith ; " and yet 'tis true 
That what man dreads he still should view — 
Should do the thing he fears to do, 

And storm the ghosts in ambuscade." 

" What good ? ** I sigh. '* Was reason meant 
To straighten branches that are bent, 
Or soothe an ancient discontent. 

The instinct of a race dethroned ? 
Ah ! doubly should that instinct go 
Must the four rivers cease to flow, 
Nor yield those rumors sweet and low 

Wherewith man's life is undertoned." 

" Yet had I but the past," she cries, 
** And it was lost, I would arise 
And comfort me some other wise. 

But more than loss about me clings : 
I am but restless with my race ; 
The whispers from a heavenly place, 
Once dropped among us, seem to chase 

Kest with their prophet-visitings. 

" The race is like a child, as yet 
Too young for all things to be set 



64 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

Plainly before him with no let 

Or hindrance meet for his degree ; 

But ne'ertheless by much too old 

Not to. perceive that men withhold 

More of the story than is told, 
And so infer a mystery. 

" If the Celestials daily fly 
With messages on missions high, 
And float, our masts and turrets nigh, 

Conversing on Heaven's great intents ; 
What wonder hints of coming things. 
Whereto man's hope and yearning clings. 
Should drop like feathers from their wings 

And give us vague presentiments ? 

"And as the waxing moon can take 

The tidal waters m her wake, 

And lead them round and round to break 

Obedient to her drawings dim ; 
So may the movements of His mind. 
The first Great Father of mankind, 
Aliect with answering movements blind, 

And draw the souls that breathe by Him. 

" We had a message long ago 
That like a river peace should flow, 
And Eden bloom again below. 
We heard, and we began to wait : 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

Full soon that message men forgot ; 
Yet waiting is their destined lot, 
And waiting for they know not what 
They strive with yearnings passionate. 

" Regret and faith alike enchain ; 
There was a loss, there comes a gain ; 
We stand at fault betwixt the twain, 

And that is veiled for which we pant. 
Our lives are short, our ten times seven ; 
We think the councils held in heaven 
Sit long, ere yet that blissful leaven 

Work peace amongst the militant. 

" Then we blame God that sin should be : 
Adam began it at the tree, 
* The woman whom Thou gavest me ; 
And we adopt his dark device. 

long Thou tarriest ! come and reign, 
And bring forgiveness in Thy train, 
And give us in our hands again 

The apples of Thy Paradise." 

" Far-seeing heart ! if that be all, 
The happy things that did not fall," 

1 sighed, " from every coppice call 

They never from that garden went. 
Behold their joy, so comfort thee, 
Behold the blossom and the bee, 



65 



66 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER, 

For they are yet as good and free 
As when poor Eve was innocent. 

" But reason thus : * If we sank low, 
If the lost garden we forego, 
Each in his day, nor ever know 

But in our poet souls its face ; 
Yet we may rise until we reach 
A height untold of in its speech — 
A lesson that it could not teach 

Learn in this darker dwelling-place. 

"And reason on : * We take the spoil ; 
Loss made us poets, and the soil 
Taught us great patience in our toil, 

And life is kin to God through death. 
Christ were not One with us but so, 
And if bereft of Him we go ; 
Dearer the heavenly mansions grow, 

His home, to man that wandereth.' 

" Content thee so, and ease thy smart.'* 
With that she slept again, my heart. 
And I admired and took my part 

With crowds of happy things the while : 
With open velvet butterflies 
That swung and spread their peacock eyes, 
As if they cared no more to rise 

From off their beds of camomile. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 67 

The blackcaps in an orchard met. 
Praising the berries while they ate : 
The finch that flew her beak to whet 

Before she joined them on the tree ; 
The water mouse among the reeds — 
His bright eyes glancing black as beads, 
So happy with a bunch of seeds — 

I felt their gladness heartily. 

But I came on, I smelt the hay, 
And up the hills I took my way, 
And down them still made hob day. 

And walked, and wearied not a whit ; 
But ever with the lane I went 
Until it dropped with steep descent, 
Cut deep into the rock, a tent 

Of maple branches roofing it. 

Adown the rock small runlets wept, 
And reckless ivies leaned and crept. 
And little spots of sunshine slept 

On its brown steeps and made them fair-' 
And broader beams athwart it shot. 
Where martins cheeped in many a knot, 
For they had ta'en a sandy plot 
. And scooped another Petra there. 

And deeper down, hemmed in and hid 
From upper light and life amid 



68 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

The swallows gossiping, I thrid 
Its mazes, till the dipping land 

Sank to the level of my lane . 

That was the last hill of the chain, 

And fair below I saw the plain 

That seemed cold cheer to reprimand, 

Half-drowned in sleepy peace it lay, 
As satiate with the boundless play 
Of sunshine in its green array. 

And clear-cut hills of gloomy blue, 
To keep it safe rose up behind. 
As with a charmed ring to bind 
The grassy sea, where clouds might find 

A place to bring their shadows to. 

I said, and blest that pastoral grace, 

" How sweet thou art, thou sunny place ! 

Thy God approves thy smiling face : '* 

But straight my heart put in her word ; 
She said, "Albeit thy face I bless. 
There have been times, sweet wilderness, 
When I have wished to love thee less, 

Such pangs thy smile administered." 

But, lo ! I reached a field of v^heat. 
And by its gate full clear and sweet 
A workman sang, while at his feet 

Played a young child, all life and stir — 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 69 

A three years' child, with rosy lip, 
Who in the song had partnei'ship, 
Made happy with each falling chip 
Dropped by the busy carpenter. 

This, reared a new gate for the old, 
And loud the tuneful measure rolled. 
But stopped as I came up to hold 

Some kindly talk of passuig things. 
Brave were his eyes, and frank his mien ; 
Of all men's faces, calm or keen, 
A better I have never seen 

In all my lonely wanderings. 

And how it was I scarce can tell. 
We seemed to please each other well ; 
I lingered till a noonday bell 

Had sounded, and his task was done. 
An oak had screened us from the heat; 
And 'neath it in the standing wheat, 
A cradle and a fair retreat. 

Full sweetly slept the little one. 

The workman rested from his stroke, 
And manly were the words he spoke. 
Until the smiling babe awoke 

And prayed to him for milk and food. 
Then to a runlet forth he went, 
And brought a wallet from the bent. 



70 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

And bade me to the meal, intent 

I should not quit his neighborhood. 

" For here," said he, " are bread and beer, 
And meat enouo-h to make good cheer ; 
Sir, eat with me, and have no fear. 

For none upon my work depend, 
Savnig this child ; and I may say 
That I am rich, for every day 
I put by somewhat ; therefore stay, 

And to such eatmg condescend." 

We ate. The child — child fair to see — 
Began to cling about his knee, 
And he down leaning fatherly 

Received some softly-prattled prayer ; 
He smiled as if to list were balm. 
And with his labor-hardened palm 
Pushed from the baby-forehead calm 

Those shining locks that clustered there. 

The rosy mouth made fresh essay — 
" O would he sing, or would he play ? " 
I looked, my thought would make its way - 

" Fair is your child of face and limb, 
The round blue eyes full sweetly shine." 
He answered me with glance benign — 
*' Ay, Sir ; but he is none of mine. 

Although I set great store by him." 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. yi 

With that, as if his heart was fain 
To open — nathless not complain — 
He let my quiet questions gain 

His story : " Not of kin to rae," 
-Repeating ; "but asleep, awake, 
For worse, for better, him I take, 
To cherish for my dead wife's sake, 

And count him as her legacy. 

" I married with the sweetest lass 
That ever stepped on meadow grass ; 
That ever at her looking-glass 

Some pleasure took, some natural care ; 
That ever swept a cottage floor 
And worked all day, nor e'er gave o'er 
Till eve, then watched beside the door 

Till her good man should meet her there 

" But I lost all in its fresh prime ; 
My wife fell ill before her time — 
Just as the bells began to chime 

One Sunday morn. By next day's light 
Her Httle babe was bom and dead, 
And she, unconscious what she said, 
With feeble hands about her spread. 

Sought it with yearnings infinite. 

" With mother-longing still beguiled, 
And lost in fever-fancies wild, 



72 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

She piteously bemoaned her child 

That we had stolen, she said, away. 
And ten sad days slie sighed to me, 

* I camiot rest until I see 

My pretty one ! I think that he 
Smiled in my face but yesterday. 

'* Then she would change, and faintly try 

To sing some tender lullaby ; 

And ' Ah ! ' would moan, ' if I should die, 

Who, sweetest babe, would cherish thee ? 
Then weep, ' My pretty boy is grown ; 
With tender feet on the cold stone 
He stands, for he can stand alone, 

And no one leads him motherly.' 

" Then she with dying movements slow 
Would seem to knit, or seem to sew : 

* His feet are bare, he must not go 

Unshod : ' and as her death drew on, 

* O little baby,' she would sigh ; 
'My little child, I cannot die 

Till I have you to slumber nigh — 
You, you to set mine eyes upon.' 

*' When she spake thus, and moanuig lay, 
They said, ' She cannot pass away. 
So sore she longs : ' and as the day 
Broke on the hills, I left her side. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

Mourning along this lane I went ; 
Some travelling folk had pitched their tent 
Up yonder : there a woman, bent 
With age, sat meanly canopied. 

" A twelvemonths' child was at her side : 
* Whose infant may that be ? ' I cried. 
' His that will own him,' she replied ; 

* His mother's dead, no vv^orse could be.' 
Since you can give — or else I erred — 
See, you are taken at your word,' 
Quoth I ; ' That child is mine ; I heard. 

And own him ! Rise, and give him me.' 

" She rose amazed, but cursed me too ; 
She could not hold such luck for true, 
But gave him soon, with small ado. 

I laid him by my Lucy's side : 
Close to her face that baby crept, 
And stroked it, and the sweet soul wept ; 
Then, while upon her arm he slept, 

She passed, for she was satisfied. 

" I loved her well, I wept her sore, 
And when her funeral left my door 
I thought that I should never more 
Feel any pleasure near me glow ; 
But I have learned, though this I had, 
'Tis sometimes natural to be glad. 



73 



74 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER, 

And no man can be always sad 
Unless he wills to have it so. 

" Oh, I had heavy nights at first, 
And daily wakening was the worst : 
For then my grief arose, and burst 

Like something fresh upon my head : 
Yet when less keen it seemed to grow, 
I was not pleased — I wished to go 
Mourning adown this vale of woe, 

For all my life uncomforted. 

*' I ginidged myself the lightsome air, 
That makes man cheerful unaware ; 
When comfort came, I did not care 

To take it in, to feel it stir : 
And yet God took with me his plan, 
And now for my appointed span 
I think I am a happier man 

For having wed and wept for her. 

" Because no natural tie remains, 

On this small thing I spend my gains ; 

God makes me love him for my pains, 

And binds me so to wholesome care 
I would not lose from my past life 
That happy year, that happy wife ! 
Yet now I wage no useless strife 

With feelings blithe and debonair. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 75 

" I have the courage to be gay, 
Although she lieth lapped away 
Under the daisies, for I say, 

* Thou wouldst be glad if thou couldst see ' : 
My constant thought makes manifest 
I have not what I love the best. 
But I must thank God for the rest 

While I hold heaven a verity," 

He rose, upon his shoulder set 

The child, and while with vague regret 

We parted, pleased that we had met. 

My heart did with herself confer ; 
With wholesome shame she did repent 
Her reasonings idly eloquent. 
And said, " I might be more content : 

But God go with the carpenter." 





THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

CN THE CONCLUDING PART OF A DISCOURSE ON FAME. 

{He thinks.) 

F there be memory in the world to come, 

If thought recur to some things sileuced here, 
Then shall the deep heart be no longer dumb. 
But find expression in that happier sphere ; 
It shall not be denied their utmost sum 

Of love, to speak without or fault or fear, 
But utter to the harp with changes sweet 
Words that, forbidden still, then heaven were incomplete 

(He speaks.) 

Now let us talk about the ancient days. 

And things which happened long before our birth : 

It is a pity to lament that praise 

Should be no shadow in the train of worth. 

What is it, Madam, that your heart dismays ? 
Why murmur at the course of this vast earth ? 

Think rather of the work than of the praise ; 

Come, we will talk about the ancient days. 

There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he) ; 
I will relate his story to you now. 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 77 

While through the branches of this apple-tree 
Some spots of sunshine flicker on your brow ; 

While every flower hath on its breast a bee, 
And every bird in stimng doth endow 

The grass wi\k falling blooms that smoothly glide. 

As ships drop down a river with the tide. 

For telling of his tale no fitter place 

Then this old orchard, sloping to the west ; 

Tlirough its pink dome of blossom I can trace 
Some overlying azure ; for the rest. 

These flowery branches round us interlace ; 
The ground is hollowed like a mossy nest : 

Who talks of fame while the religious spring 

Offers the incense of her blossoming ? 

There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he), 
^Tio, while he walked at sundown in a lane, 

Took to his heart the hope that destiny 
Had singled him this guerdon to obtain. 

That by the power of his sweet minstrelsy 

Some hearts for truth and goodness he should gain. 

And charm some grovellers to uplift their eyes 

And suddenly wax conscious of the skies. 

" Master, good e'en to ye ! " a woodman said. 

Who the low hedge was trimming with his shears. 

" This hour is fine " — the Poet bowed his head. 
" More fine," he thought, " O friend ! to me appears 



yS THE STAR'S MONUMENT, 

The sunset than to you ; finer the spread 

Of orange lustre through these azure spheres, 
Wliere little clouds lie still, like flocks of sheep, 
Or vessels sailing in God's other deep. 

" finer far ! What work so high as mine, 
Interpreter betwixt the world and man. 

Nature's ungathered pearls to set and shrine, 
The mystery she wraps her in to scan ; 

Her unsyllabic voices to combine, 

And serve her with such love as poets can ; 

With mortal words, her chant of praise to bind. 

Then die, and leave the poem to mankind ? 

" O fair, O fine, O lot to be desired ! 

Early and late my heart appeals to me. 
And says, ' O work, O will — Thou man, be fired 

To earn this lot,' — she says, ' I would not be 
A worker for mine OWN bread, or one hired 

For mine OWN profit. O, I would be free 
To work for others ; love so earned of them 
Should be my wages and my diadem. 

" ' Then when I died I should not Ml,' says she, 
' Like dropping flowers that no man noticeth, 

But like a great ])ranch of some stately tree 
Rent in a tempest, and flung down to death, 

Thick with green leafage — so that piteously 
Each passer by that ruin shuddereth, 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

And saith, The gap this branch hath left is wide ; 
The loss thereof can never be supplied.' " 

Bat, Madam, while the Poet pondered so, 
Toward the leafy hedge he turned his eye. 

And saw tw^o slender branches that did gi'ow, 
And from it rising spring and flourish high : 

Their tops were twined together fast, and, lo, 
Their shadow crossed the path as he went by — 

The shadow of a wild rose and a brier, 

And it was shaped in semblance like a lyre. 

In sooth, a lyi-e ! and as the soft air played, 
Those branches stirred, but did not disunite. 

" O emblem meet for me ! " the Poet said ; 
" Ay, I accept and own thee for my right ; 

The shadowy lyre across my feet is laid. 

Distinct though frail, and clear with crimson light ; 

Fast is it twined to bear the windy strain. 

And, supple, it will bend and rise again. 

" This lyre is cast across the dusty way. 

The common path that common men pursue ; 

I crave like blessing for my shadowy lay. 
Life's trodden paths with beauty to renew, 

And cheer the eve of many a toU-stained day. 
Light it, old sun, wet it, thou common dew, 

That 'neath men's feet its image still may be 

While yet it waves above them, living lyi-e, like thee ! 



79 



8o THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

But even as the Poet spoke, behold 
He lifted up his face toward the sky ; 

The ruddy sun dipt under the gray wold, 

His shadowy lyre was gone; and, passing by, 

The woodman lifting up his shears, was bold 
Their temper on those branched twain to try, 

And all their loveliness and leafage sweet 

Fell in the pathway, at the Poet's feet. 

" Ah ! my fair emblem that I chose," quoth he, 
" That for myself I coveted but now, 

Too soon, methinks, thou hast been false to me ; 
The lyre from pathway fades, the light from brow. 

Then straightway turned he from it hastily. 
As dream that waking sense will disallow ; 

And while the highway heavenward paled apace, 

He went on westward to his dwelling-place. 

He went on steadily, while far and fast 

The summer darkness dropped upon the world, 

A gentle air among the cloudlets passed 

And fanned away their crimson ; then it curled 

The yellow poppies in the field, and cast 
A dimness on the grasses, for it furled 

Their daisies, and swept out the purple stain 

That eve had left upon the pastoral plain. 

He reached his city. Lo ! the darkened street 
Where he abode was full of gazing crowds ; 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 8l 

He heard the muffled tread of many feet ; 

A multitude stood gazing at the clouds. 
" What mark ye there," said he, " and wherefore meet r 

Only a passing mist the heaven o'ershrouds ; 
It breaks, it parts, it drifts like scattered spars — 
What lies beliind it but the nightly stars ? " 

Then did the gazing crowd to him aver 

They sought a lamp in heaven whose light was hid f 
For that in sooth an old Astronomer 

Down from his roof had rushed into their mid. 
Frighted, and fain with others to confer, 

That he had cried, " O sirs ! " — and upward bid 
Them gaze — " O sirs, a Ught is quenched afar ; 
Look up, my masters, we have lost a star ! " 

The people poiiitesi, and the Poet's eyes 
Flew upward, where a gleaming sisterliood 

Swam in the dewy heaven. The very skies 
Were mutable ; for all-amazed he stood 

To see that truly not in any wise 

He could behold them as of old, nor could 

His eyes receive the whole whereof he wot, 

But when he told them over, one was not. 

While yet he gazed and pondered reverently, 

The fickle folk began to move away. 
" It is but one s'^ar less for us to see ; 

And what does one star signify ? " quoth they ; 



82 THE STARS MONUMENT. 

" The heavens are full of them." " But, ah ! " said he, 
" That star was bright while yet she lasted.'* " Ay ! 
They answered : " Praise her. Poet, an' ye will : 
Some are now shining that are brighter stili.'" 

" Poor star ! to be disparaged so soon 

On her withdrawal," thus the Poet sighed ; 

" That men should miss, and straight deny her noon 
Its brightness ! " But the people in their pride 

Said, " How are we beholden ? 'twas no boon 
She gave. Her nature 'twas to shine so wide: 

She could not choose but shine, nor could we know 

Such star had ever dwelt in heaven but so." 

The Poet answered sadly, " That is true ! " 
And then he thought upon unthankfulness ; 

While some went homeward ; and the "jesidue, 
Peflecting that the stars are numberless, 

Mounied that man's daylight hours should be so few, 
So short the shining that his path may bless : 

To nearer themes then tuned their willing lips, 

And thought no more upon the star's eclipse. 

Rut he, the Poet, could not rest content 
Till he had found that old Astronomer ; 

I'herefore at midnight to his house he went 
And prayed him be his tale's interpreter. 

And yet upon the heaven his eyes he bent, 
Hearing the marvel ; yet he sought for her 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

That was awanting, in the hope her face 
Once more might fill its reft abiding-place. 

Then said the old Astronomer : " My son, 

I sat alone upon my roof to-night ; 
I saw the stars come fortli, and scarcely shun 

To fringe the edges of the western light ; 
I marked those ancient clusters one by one, 

The same that blessed our old forefather's sight 
For God alone is older — none but He 
Can charge the stars with mutability : 

" The elders of the night, the steadfast stars, 
The old, old stars which God has let us see, 

That they might be our soul's auxiliars, 

And help us to the ti'uth how young we be — 

God's youngest, latest born, as if, some spars 
And a little clay being over of them — Pie 

Had made our world and us thereof, yet given. 

To humble us, the sight of His gi^eat heaven. 

" But ah ! my son, to-night mine eyes have seen 
Tlie death of light, the end of old renown; 

A shrinking back of glory that had been, 
A dread eclipse before the Eternal's frown. 

How soon a little grass will grow between 
These eyes and tliose appointed to look down 

Upon a world that was not made on high 

Till the last scenes of their long empiry ! 



83 



84 THE STARS MONUMENT. 

"To-night that shining chister now despoiled 

Lay in day's wake a perfect sisterhood ; 
Sweet was its h'ght to me that long had toiled, 

It gleamed and trembled o'er the distant wood ; 
Blown in a pile the clouds from it recoiled, 

Cool twilight up the sky her way made good ; 
I saw, but not believed — it was so strange — 
That one of those same stars had suffered change. 

" The darkness gathered, and methought she spread, 
Wrapped in a reddish haze that waxed and waned ; 

But notwithstanding to myself I said — 
' The stars are changeless ; sure some mote hath stainf3<l 

IVIine eyes, and her fair glory minished.' 
Of age and failing vision I complained, 

And thought ' some vapor in the heavens doth swim, 

That makes her look so large and yet so dim.' 

" But I gazed round, and all her lustrous peers 
In her red presence showed but wan and white 

For like a living coal beheld through tears 

She glowed and quivered with a gloomy light : 

Methought she trembled, as all sick through fears. 
Helpless, appalled, appealing to the night ; 

Like one who throws his arms up to the sky 

And bows down suffering, hopeless of reply. 

" At length, as if an everlasting Hand 
Had taken hold upon her in her place. 



IHE STAR'S MONUMENT. 85 

And swiftly, like a golden grain of sand, 

Through all the deep infinitudes of space 
Was drawing her — God's truth as here I stand — 

Backward and inward to itself; her face 
Fast lessened, lessened, till it looked no more 
Than smallest atom on a boundless shore. 

» 
•'And she that was so fair, I saw her lie. 

The smallest thing in God's great firmament. 
Till night was at the darkest, and on high 

Her sisters glittered, though her light was spent ; 
I strained, to follow her, each aching eye. 

So swiftly at her Maker's will she went ; 
I looked again — I looked — the star was gone, 
And nothing marked in heaven where she had shone.'* 

" Gone ! '* said the Poet, " and about to be 

Forgotten : O, how sad a fate is hers ! " 
" How is it sad, my son ? " all reverently 

The old man answered ; " though she ministers 
No longer with her lamp to me and thee. 

She has fulfilled her mission. God transfers 
Or dims her ray ; yet was she blest as bright, 
For all her life was spent in giving light." 

** Her mission she fulfilled assuredly," 
The Poet cried ; " but, O unhappy star ! 

None praise and few will bear in memory 

The name she went by. O, from far, from far 



86 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

Comes down, methinks, her mournful voice to me, 

Full of regrets that men so thankless are." 
So said, he told that old Astronomer 
All that the gazing crowd had said of her. 

And he went on to speak in bitter wise, 
As one who seems to tell another's fate, 

But feels that nearer meaning underlies, 
And points its sadness to his own estate : 

" If such be the reward," he said with sighs, 
" Envy to earn for love, for goodness hate — 

If such be thy reward, hard case is thine ! 

It had been better for thee not to shine. 

" If to reflect a light that is divine 

Makes that which doth reflect it better seen, 

And if to see is to contemn the shrine, 
'Twere surely better it had never been : 

It had been better for her not to shine. 
And for me not to sing. Better, I ween, 

For us to yield no more that radiance bright. 

For them, to lack the light than scorn the light." 

Strange words were those from Poet lips (said he) ; 

And then he paused, and sighed, and turned to look 
Upon the lady's do^vncast eyes, and see 

How fast the honey-bees in settling shook 
Those apple blossoms on her from the tree ; 

He watched her busy fingers as they took 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



87 



And slipped the knotted thread, and thought how much 
He would have given that hand to hold — to touch. 

At length, as suddenly become aware 

Of this long pause, she lifted up her face, 

And he withdrew his eyes — she looked so fair 
And cold, he thought, in her unconscious grace. 

"Ah ! little dreams she of the restless care," 

He thought, " that makes my heart to throb apace : 

Though we this morning part, the knowledge sends 

No thrill to her calm pulse — we are but friends." 

Ah! turret clock (he thought), I would thy hand 
Were hid behind yon towering maple-trees ! 

Ah ! tell-tale shadow, but one moment stand — 
Dark shadow — fast advancing to my knees ; 

Ah ! foolish heart (he thought), that vainly planned 
By feigning gladness to arrive at ease ; 

Ah ! painful hour, yet pain to think it ends ; 

I must remember that we are but friends. 

And while the knotted thread moved to and fro, 

In sweet regretful tones that lady said : 
"It seemeth that the fame you would forego 

The Poet whom you tell of coveted ; 
But I would fain, methinks, his story know. 

And was he loved ? " said she, " or was he wed ? 
And had he friends ? " " One friend, perhaps," said he, 
" But for the rest, I pray you let it be." 



88 THE STARS MONUMENT. 

Ah ! little bird (he thought), most patient bird, 
Breasting thy speckled eggs the long day through, 

By so much as my reason is preferred 

Above thine instinct, I my work would do 

Better than thou dost thine. Thou hast not stirred 
This hour thy wing. Ah ! russet bird, I sue 

For a like patience to wear through these hours — 

Bird on thy nest among the apple-flowers. 

I will not speak — I will not speak to thee. 
My star ! and soon to be my lost, lost star. 

The sweetest, first, that ever shone on me, 
So high above me and beyond so far ; 

I can forego thee, but not bear to see 

My love, like rising mist, thy lustre mar : 

That were a base return for thy sweet light. 

Shine, though I never more shall see that thou art briglit. 

Never ! 'Tis certain that no hope is — none ! 

No hope for me, and yet for thee no fear. 
The hardest part of my hard task is done ; 

Thy calm assures me that I am not dear ; 
Though far and fast the rapid moments run, 

Thy bosom heaveth not, thine eyes are clear ; 
Silent, perhaps a little sad at heart 
She is. I am her friend, and I depart. 

Silent she had been, but she raised her face ; 

"And will you end," said she, " this half-told tale ? " 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 89 

** Yls, it were best," he answered her. " The place 
Where I left off was where he felt to foil 

His courage, Madam, through the fancy base 
That they who love, endure, or work, may rail 

And cease — if all their love, the works they wrought, 

\ nd their endurance, men have set at nought.'* 

" 1 1 had been better for me not to sing," 
My Poet said, " and for her not to shine ; '* 

But him the old man answered, sorrowing, 
" My son, did God who made her, the Divine 

Lighter of suns, when down to yon bright rmg 
He cast her, like some gleaming almandine, 

And set her in her place, begirt with rays, 

Say unto her ' Give light,' or say ' Earn praise ? ' " 

The Poet said, " He made her to give light." 

" My son," the old man answered, " Blest are such ; 

A blessed lot is theirs ; but if each night 

Mankind had praised her radiance, inasmuch 

As praise had never made it wax more bright, 
And cannot now rekindle with its touch 

Her lost effulgence, it is nought. I wot 

Chat praise was not her blessing nor her lot." 

'*Ay," said the Poet, " I ray words abjure. 

And I repent me that I uttered them ; 
But by her light and by its forfeiture 

She shall not pass without her requiem. 



^O THE STAR'S MONUMENT 

Though my name perish, yet shall hers endure ; 

Though I should be forgotten, she, lost gem, 
Shall be remembered ; though she sought not fame, 
It shall be busy with her beauteous name. 

" For I will raise in her bright memory, 

Lost now on earth, a lasting monument, 
And graven on it shall recorded be 

That all her rays to light mankind were spent ; 
And I will sing albeit none heedeth me. 

On her exemplar bemg still intent : 
While in men's sight shall stand the record thus — 
* So long as she did last she lighted us.' " 

So said, he raised, according to his vow. 

On the green grass where oft his townsfolk met, 

Under the shadow of a leafy bough 
That leaned toward a singing rivulet, 

One pure white stone, whereon, like crown on brow, 
The image of the vanished star was set ; 

And this was graven on the pure wliite stone 

In golden letters — " While she lived she shone." 

Madam, I cannot give this story well — 

My heart is beatuig to another chime ; 
My voice must needs a different cadence swell ; 

It is yon singing bird, which all the time 
Wooeth his nested mate, that doth dispel 

My thoughts. What, deem you, could a lover's rhyme 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

The sweetness of that passionate lay excel ? 

soft, low her voice — "I cannot tell.'* 

(He thinks.) 

The old man — ay, he spoke, he was not hard ; 

" She was his joy," he said, " his comforter, 
But he would trust me. I was not debarred 

Whate'er my heart approved to say to her." 
Approved ! O torn and tempted and ill-starred 

And breaking heart, approve not nor demur ; 
It is the serpent that beguileth thee 
With " God doth know " beneath this apple-tree. 

Yea, God doth know, and only God doth know. 
Have pity, God, my spirit groans to Thee ! 

1 bear Thy curse primeval, and I go ; 

But heavier than on Adam falls on me 
My tillage of the wilderness ; for lo, 

I leave behind the woman, and I see 
As 'twere the gates of Eden closing o'er 
To hide her from my sight for evermore. 

(He speaks.) 

I am a fool, ^dth sudden start he cried, 
To let the song-bird work me such unrest: 

If I break off again, I pray you chide. 
For morning fleeteth, with my tale at best 

Half told. That white stone, Madam, gleamed beside 
The little rivulet, and all men pressed 



V 



92 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



To read the lost one's story traced thereon, 

The golden legend — " While she lived she shone.** 

And, Madam, when the Poet heard them read, 
And children spell the letters softly through, 

It may be that he felt at heart some need, 
Some craving to be thus remembered too ; 

It may be that he wondered if indeed 

He must die wholly when he passed from view ; 

It may be, wished when death his eyes made dim. 

That some kind hand would raise such stone for him. 

But shortly, as there comes to most of us, 

There came to him the need to quit his home : 

To tell you why were simply hazardous. 

What said I, Madam ? — men were made to roam 

My meaning is. It hath been always thus : 
They are athirst for mountains and sea-foam ; 

Heirs of this world, what wonder if perchance 

They long to see their grand inheritanceJ' 

He left his city, and went forth to teach 
Mankind, his peers, the hidden harmony 

That underlies God's discords, and to reach 
And touch the master-string that like a sigh 

Thrills in their souls, as if it would beseech 
Some hand to sound it, and to satisfy 

Its yearning for expression : but no word 

Till poet touch it hath to make its music heard. 



THE STARS MONUMENT. 93 



{He thinks.) 

I know that God is good, though evil dwells 
Among us, and doth all things holiest share ; 

That there is joy in heaven, while yet our knells 
Sound for the souls which He has summoned there : 

That painful love unsatisfied hath spells 

Eai-ned by its smart to soothe its fellows care : 

But yet this atom cannot in tiie whole 

Forget itself — it aches a separate soul. 

(He speals.') 
But, Madam, to my Poet I return. 

With his sweet cadences of woven words 
He made their rude untutored hearts to burn 

And melt like gold relined. No brooding birds 
Sing better of the love that doth sojourn 

Hid in the nest of home, which softly girds 
The beating heart of life ; and, strait though it be. 
Is straitness better than wide liberty. 

He taught them, and they learned, but not the less 
Remained unconscious whence that lore they drew, 

But dreamed that of their native nobleness 

Some lofty thoughts, that he had planted, grew ; 

His glorious maxims in a lowly dress 

Like seed sown broadcast sprung in all men's view. 

The sower, passing onward, was not knoAvn, 

And all men reaped the harvest as their own. 



g^ THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

It may be, Madam, that those ballads sweet, 
Whose rhythmic measures yesterday we sung, 

Which time and changes make not obsolete, 
But (as a river bears down blossoms flung 

Upon its breast) take with them while they fleet — 
It may be from his lyre that first they sprung : 

But who can tell, since work surviveth fame? — 

Tlie rhyme is left, but lost the Poet's name. 

He worked, and bravely he fulfilled his trust — 
So long he wandered sowing worthy seed, 

Watering of wayside buds that were adust, 
And touching for the common ear his reed — 

So long to wear away the cankering rust 

That dulls the gold of life — so long to plead 

With sweetest music for all souls oppressed, 

That he was old ere he had thought of rest. 

Old and gray-headed, leaning on a staff, 
To that great city of his birth he came, 

And at its gates he paused with wondering laugh 

To think how changed were all his thoughts of fame 

Since first he carved the golden epitaph 
To keep in memory a worthy name. 

And thought forgetfulness had been its doom 

But for a few bright letters on a tomb. 

The old Astronomer had long since died ; 

The friends of youth were gone and far dispersed ; 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. ^^ 

Strange were the domes that rose on every side ; 

Strange fountains on his wondering vision burst ; 
The men of yesterday their business plied ; 

No face was left that he had known at first ; 
And in the city gardens, lo, he sees 
The saplings that he set are stately trees. 

Upon the grass beneath their welcome shade, 
Behold ! he marks the fair white monument, 

And on its face the golden words displayed, 
For sixty years their lustre have not spent ; 

He sitteth by it and is not afraid. 

But in its shadow he is well content ; 

And envies not, though bright their gleamings iire. 

The golden letters of the vanished star. 

He gazeth up ; exceeding bright appears 

That golden legend to his aged eyes, 
For they are dazzled till they fill with tears, 

And his lost Youth doth like a vision rise ; 
She saith to him, " In all these toilsome years. 

What hast thou won by work or enterprise ? 
What hast thou won to make amends to thee, 
As thou didst swear to do, for loss of me ? 

*' O man ! white-haired mim ! " the vision said, 
" Since we two sat beside this monument 

Life's clearest hues are all evanished ; 

The golden wealth thou hadst of me is spent ; 



g6 T'HE STARS MONUMENT. 

The wind hath swept thy flowers, their leaves are shed 

The music is played out that with thee went." 
" Peace, peace ! " he cried, " 1 lost thee, but, in truth, 
There are worse losses than the loss of youth." 

He said not what those losses were — but I — 
But I must leave them, for the time draws near. 

Some lose not only joy, but memory 

Of how it felt : not love that was so dear 

Lose only, but the steadfast certainty 

That once they had it ; doubt comes on, then fear, 

And after that despondency. I wis 

The Poet must have meant such loss as this. 

But while he sat and pondered on his youth, 
He said, " It did one deed that doth remain, 

For it preserved the memory and the truth 
Of her that now doth neither set nor wane, 

But shine in all men's thoughts ; nor sink forsooth, 
And be forgotten like the summer rain. 

O, it is good that man should not forget 

Or benefits foregone or brightness set ! " 

He spoke and said, " My lot contenteth me ; 

1 am right glad for this her worthy fame ; 
That which was good and great I fain Avould see 

Drawn with a halo round what rests — its name." 
This while the Poet said, behold there came 

A workman with his tools anear the tree. 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

And when he read the words he paused awhile 
And pondered on them with a wondering smile. 

And then he said, " I pray you, Sir, what mean 
The golden letters of this monument ? " 

Tn wonder quoth the Poet, " Hast thou been 
A dweller near at hand, and their intent 

Hast neither heard by voice of fame, nor seen 
The marble earlier ? " "Ay," said he, and leant 

Upon his spade to hear the tale, then sigh, 

And say it was a marvel, and pass by. 

Then said the Poet, " This is strange to me." 
But as he mused, with trouble in his mind, 

A band of maids approached him leisurely. 
Like vessels sailing with a favoring vnud ; 

And of their rosy lips requested he, 

As one that for a doubt would solving find. 

The tale, if tale there were, of that white stone, 

And those fair letters — " While she lived she shone.' 

Then like a fleet that floats becalmed they stay. 

" 0, vSir," saith one, " this monument is old ; 
But we have heard our virtuous mothers say 

That by their mothers thus the tale was told : 
A Poet made it ; journeying then away, 

He left us ; and though some the meaning hold 
For other than the ancient one, yet we 
Receive this legend for a certairity : — 

7 



97 



98 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

** There was a lily once, most purely white, 
Beneath the shadow of these boughs it grew ; 

Its starry blossom it unclosed by night, 

And a young Poet loved its shape and hue. 

He watched it nightly, 'twas so fair a sight, 
Until a stormy wind arose and blew, 

And when he came once more his flower to greet 

Its fallen petals drifted to his feet. 

"And for his beautiful white lily's sake, 

That she might be remembered where her scent 

Had been right sweet, he said that he would make 
In her dear memory a monument : 

For she was purer than a driven flake 

Of^snow, and in her grace most excellent; 

The loveliest life that death did ever mar. 

As beautiful to gaze on as a star." 

" I thank you, maid," the Poet answered her, 
"And I am glad that I have heard your tale." 

With that they passed ; and as an inlander, 
Having heard breakers raging in a gale, 

And falling down in thunder, will aver 
Tliat still, when far away in grassy vale, 

lie seems to hear those seething waters bound, 

So in his ears the maiden's voice did sound. 

tie leaned his face upon Ins hand, and thousfh^ 
And tliought, until a youth came by that way; 



THE STAR'S MONbWEAT. g^ 

And once again of him the Poet sought 
The story of the star. But, well-a-daj ! 

He said, " The meaninoj with much doubt is frau<T[it, 
The seuse thereof can no man surely say ; 

For still tradition sways the common ear, 

That of a truth a star did disappear. 

" But they who look beneath the outer shell 
That wraps the ' kernel of the people's lore/ 

Hold THAT for superstition ; and they tell 
That seven lovely sisters dwelt of yore 

In this old city, where it so befell 

That one a Poet loved ; that, furthermore, 

As stars above us she was pure and good. 

And fairest of that beauteous sisterhood. 

" So beautiful they were, those virgins seven. 

That all men called them clustered stars in song, 

Forgetful that the stars abide in heaven : 
But woman bideth not beneath it long ; 

For 0, alas ! alas ! one fated even 

When stars their azure deeps began to throng, 

That virgin's eyes of Poet loved waxed dim. 

And all their lustrous shining waned to him. 

" In summer dusk she drooped her head and sighed 
Until what time the evening star went down. 

And all the (^lier stars did shining bide 
Clear in the lustre of their old renown. 



lOO THE STARS MONUMENT. 

And then — the virgin laid her down and died : 
Forgot her youth, forgot her beauty's crown, 
Forgot the sisters whom she loved before, 
And broke her Poet's heart for evermore." 

" A mournful tale, in sooth," the lady saith : 
" But did he truly grieve for evermore ? " 

" It may be you forget," he answereth, 
" That this is but a fable at the core 

O' the other fable." " Though it be but breath," 
She asketh, " was it true ? " — then he, " This lore, 

Since it is fable, either way may go ; 

Then, if it please you, think it might be so." 

" Nay, but," she saith, " if I had told your tale, 
The virgin should have lived his home to bless. 

Or, must she die, 1 would have made to fail 
His useless love." " 1 tell you not the less," 

He sighs, " because it was of no avail : 
His heart the Poet would not dispossess 

Thereof- But let us leave the fable now. 

My Poet heard it with an aching brow." 

And he made answer thus : " I thank thee, youth; 

Strange is thy story to these aged ears, 
But I bethink me thou hast told a truth 

Under the guise of fable. If my tears. 
Thou lost beloved star, lost now, forsooth, 

Indeed could bring thee back among thy peers 



THE STARS MONUMENT, iq] 

So new thou should'st be deemed as newly seen, 
For men forget that thou hast ever been. 

" There was a morning when I longed for fame, 
There was a noontide when I passed it by, 

There is an evening when I think not shame 
Its substance and its being to deny ; 

For if men bear in mind great deeds, the name 
Of him that wrought them shall they leave to die ; 

Or if his name they shall have deathless writ, 

They change the deeds that first ennobled it. 

" O golden letters of this monument ! 

O words to celebrate a loved renown 
Lost now or wrested ! and to fancies lent, 

Or on a fabled forehead set for crown, 
For my departed star, I am content, 

Though legends dim and years her memory drown : 
For what were fame to her, compared and set 
By this great truth which ye make lustrous yet ? " 

"Adieu ! " the Poet said, " my vanished star, 

Thy duty and thy happiness were one. 
Work is heaven's best ; its fame is sublunar ; 

The fame thou dost not need — the work is done. 
For thee I am content that these things are ; 

More than content were I, my race being run, 
Might it be true of me, though none thereon 
Should muse regretful — ' While he lived he shone.' " 



102 THE STARS MONUMENT, 

So said, the Poet rose and went his way, 

And that same lot he proved whereof he Si)ake. 

Madam, my story is told out ; the day 

Draws out her shadows, time doth overtake 

The morning. That which endeth call a lay, 
Sung after pause — a motto in the break 

Between two chapters of a tale not new, 

Nor joyful — but a common tale. Adieu ! 

And that same God who made your face so fair, 
And gave your woman's heart its tenderness, 

So shield the blessing He implanted there, 
That it may never turn to your distress, 

And never cost you trouble or despair. 

Nor granted leave the granter comfortless ; 

But like a river blest where'er it flows. 

Be still receiving while it still bestows. 

Adieu, he said, and paused, while she sat mute 
In the soft shadow of the apple-tree ; 

The skylark's song rang like a joyous flute. 
The brook went prattling past her restlessly : 

She let their tongues be her tongue's substitute ; 
It was the wind that sighed, it was not she : 

And what the lark, the brook, the wind, had said, 

We cannot tell, for none interpreted. 

Their counsels might be hard to reconcile. 
They might not suit the moment or the spot. 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

She rose, and laid her work aside the while 
Down in the sunshine of that grassy plot ; 

She looked upon him with an almost smile, 
And held to him a hand that faltered not. 

One moment — bird and brook went warbling on, 

And the wind sighed again — and he was gone. 

So quietly, as if she heai'd no more 

Or skylark in the azure overhead. 
Or water slipping past the cressy shore, 

Or wind that rose in sighs, and sighing fled — 
So quietly, until the alders hoar 

Took him beneath them ; till the downward spread 
Of planes engulfed him in their leafy seas — 
She stood beneath her rose-flushed apple-trees. 

And then she stooped toward the mossy grass. 
And gathered up her work and went her way ; 

Straight to that ancient turret she did pass. 

And startle back some fawns that were at play. 

She did not sigh, she never said " Alas ! " 

Although he was her friend : but still that day. 

Where elm and hornbeam spread a towering dome, 

She crossed the dells to her ancestral home. 

And did she love him ? — what if she did not ? 

Then home was still the home of happiest years ; 
Nor thought was exiled to partake his lot. 

Nor heart lost courage through forboding fears ; 



103 



104 ^^^ STAR'S MONUMENT. 

Nor echo did against her secret plot, 

Nor music her betray to painful tears ; 
Nor life become a dream, and sunshine dim, 
And riches poverty, because of him. 

But did she love him ? — what and if she did ? 

Love cannot cool the burning Austral sand, 
Nor show the secret waters that lie hid 

In arid valleys of that desert land. 
Love has no spells can scorching winds forbid, 

Or bring the help which tarries near to hand. 
Or spread a cloud for curtaining faded eyes 
That gaze up dying into alien skies. 





A DEAD YEAR. 

TOOK a year out of my life and story — 
A dead year, and said, " I will hew thee a 
tomb! 

*A11 the kings of the nations lie in glory ; ' 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom ; 
Swathed in linen, and precious unguents old ; 
Painted with cinnabar, and rich Avith gold. 

" Silent they rest, in solemn salvatory. 
Sealed from the moth and the owl and the flitter- 
mouse — 

Each with his name on his brow. 
*A11 the kings of the niitions lie in glory, 
Every one in his own house : ' 

Then why not thou ? 

" Year," I said, " thou shalt not lack 
Bribes to bar thy coming back ; 
Doth old Egypt wear her best 
In the chambers of her rest ? 
Doth she take to her last bed 
Beaten gold, and glorious red ? 



,o6 ^ DEAD YEAR. 

Envy not ! for thou wilt wear 
In the dark a shroud as fair ; 
Golden with the sunny ray 
Thou withdrawest from my day ; 
Wrought upon with colors fine. 
Stolen from this life of mine : 
Like the dusty Lybian kings, 
Lie with two wide open wings 
On thy breast, as if to say, 
On these wings hope flew away; 
And so housed, and thue adorned. 
Not forgotten, but not scorned, 
Let the dark for evermore 
Close thee when I close the door ; 
And the dust for ages fall 
In the creases of thy pall ; 
And no voice nor visit rude 
Break thy sealed solitude." 

I took the year out of my life and story, 
The dead year, and said, "I have hewed thee a tomb! 

*A11 the kings of the nations lie in glory, ' 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom ; 
But for the sword, and the sceptre, and diadem, 
Sure thou didst reign like them." 
So I laid her with those tyrants old and hoary, 

According to my vow ; 
For I said, " The kings of the nations lie in glory, 
And so shalt thou ! " 



A DEAD YEAR. - 107 

*' Kock," I said, " thy ribs are strong, 

That I bring thee guard it long ; 

Hide the light from buried eyes — 

Hide it, lest the dead arise." 

" Year," I said, and turned away, 

" I am free of thee this day ; 

All that we two only know, 

I forgive and I forego, 

So thy face no more I meet. 

In the field or in the street." 

Thus we parted, she and I ; 
Life hid death, and put it by ; 
Life hid death, and said, " Be free 
I have no more need of thee." 
No more need ! O mad mistake, 
"With repentance in its wake ! 
Ignorant, and rash, and blind, 
Life had left the grave behind ; 
But had locked within its hold 
With the spices and the gold, 
All she had to keep her warm 
In the raging of the storm. 

Scarce the sunset bloom was gone. 
And the little stars outshone. 
Ere the dead year, stiff and stark, 
Drew me to her in the dark ; 
Death drew Hfe to come to her, 



io8 A DEAD YEAR. 

Beating at her sepulchre, 
Crying out, " How can I part 
With the best share of ray heart ? 
Lo, iMies upon the bier, 
Captive, with the buried year. 

my heart ! '* And 1 fell prone, 
Weeping at the sealed stone ; 

" Year among the shades," I said, 
" Since I live, and thou art dead. 
Let my captive heart be free, 
Like a bird to fly to me.'* 
And I stayed some voice to win, 
But none answered from within ; 
And I kissed the door — and night 
Deepened till the stars waxed bright ; 
And I saw them set and wane, 
And the world turn green again. 

" So," I whispered, " open door, 

1 must tread this palace floor — 
Sealed palace, rich and dim. 
Let a narrow sunbeam swim 
After me, and on me spread 
While I look upon my dead ; 
Let a little warmth be free 

To come after ; let me see 
Through the doorway, when I sit 
Looking out, the swallows flit, 
Settling not till daylight goes ; 



A DEAD YEAR. loq 

Let me smell the wild white rose, 

Smell the woodbme and the may ; 

Mark, upon a sunny day, 

Sated from their blossoms rise, 

Honey-bees and butterflies. 

Let me hear, O ! let me hear, 

Sitting by my buried year, 

Finches chirping to their young, 

And the little noises flung 

Out of clefts where rabbits play, 

Or from falling water-spray ; 

And the gracious echoes woke 

By man's work : the woodman's stroke, 

Shout of shepherd, whistlings blithb. 

And the whetting of the scythe ; 

Let this be, lest shut and furled 

From the well-beloved world, 

I forget her yearnings old, 

And her troubles manifold, 

Strivings sore, submissions meet, 

And my pulse no longer beat, 

Keeping time and bearing part 

With the pulse of her great heart. 

" So ; swing open door, and shade 
Take me ; I am not afraid, 
For the time will not be long ; 
Soon I shall have waxen strong — 
Strong enough my own to win 
From the srave it lies v/ithin." 



no A DEAD YEAR. 

And I entered. On her bier 
Quiet lay the buried year ; 
I sat down where I could see 
Life without and sunshine free, 
Death witliiu. And I between, 
Waited my own heart to wean 
From the shroud that shaded her 
In the rock-hewn sepulchre — • 
Waited till the dead should say, 
" Heart, be free of me this day " — 
Waited with a patient will — 

And I WAIT BETWEEN THEM STILL. 

I take the year back to my life and story, 
The dead year, and say, " I will share in thy tomb. 

^ All the kings of the nations lie in glory ; ' 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom I 
i'hey reigned in their hfetime with sceptre and diadem 

But thou excellest them ; 
For life doth make thy grave her oratory, 

And the crown is still on thy brow ; 
* All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' 
And so dost thou." 




^^ 



REFLECTIONS. 



Written for The Portfolio Society, July i8o2. 




LOOKING OVER A GATE AT A POOL IN A FIELD. 

IIAT change has made the pastures sweet 
Aud reached the. daisies at my teet, 
And cloud that wears a golden hem ? 
This lovely world, the hills, the sward — 
They all look fresh, as if our Lord 
But yesterday had finished them. 

And here's the field with light aglow ; 
How fresh its boundary lime-trees show, 

And how its wet leaves ti'embling shine ! 
Between their trunks come through to me 
The morning sparkles of the sea 

Below the level browsing line 

I see the pool more clear by lialf 
Than pools where other waters laugh 
Up at the breasts of coot and rail. 



112 REFLECTIONS. 

There, as she passed it on her way, 
I saw reflected yesterday 

A maiden with a milking-pail. 

There, neither slowly nor in haste, 
One hand upon her slender waist, 

The other lifted to her pail, 
She, rosy in the morning light, 
Among the water-daisies white, 

Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. 

Against her ankles as she trod 
The lucky buttercups did nod. 

I leaned upon the gate to see : 
The sweet thing looked, but did not speak; 
A dimple came in either cheek, 

And all my heart was gone from me. 

Then, as I lingered on the gate, 
And she came up like coming fate, 

T saw my picture in her eyes — 
Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes. 
Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows 

Among white-headed majesties. 

I said, "A tale was made of old 
That I would fain to thee unfold ; 

Ah ! let me — let me tell the tale." 
But high she held her comely head ; 



REFLECTIONS. 

" 1 cannot heed it now," she said, 
" For carrying of the niilking-pail." 

She laughed. What good to make ado ? 
I held the gate, and she came through. 

And took her homeward path anon. 
From the clear pool her face had fled ; 
It rested on my heart instead. 

Reflected when the maid was gone. 

With happy youth, and work content. 
So sweet and stately on she went. 

Right careless of the untold tale. 
Each step she took I loved her more, 
And followed to her dairy door 

The maiden with the milking-pail. 

II. 

For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, 
How fine, how blest a thmg is work ! 

For work does good when reasons fail — 
Good ; yet the axe at every stroke 
The echo of a name awoke — 

Her name is Mary Martindale. 

I'm glad that echo was not heard 
Aright by other men : a bird 

Knows doubtless what his own notes tell ; 
And I know not, but I can say 
8 



'13 



M 



REFLECTIONS. 

I felt as shame-faced all that day 

As if folks heard her name right well. 

And when the west began to glow 
1 went — I could not choose but go — 

To that same dairy on the hill ; 
And while sweet Mary moved about 
Within, I came to her without, 

And leaned upon the window-sill. 

The garden border where I stood 

Was sweet with pinks and southernwood. 

I spoke — her answer seemed to fail : 
I smelt the pinks — I could not see ; 
The dusk came down and sheltered me, 

And in the dusk she heard my tale. 

And what is left that I should tell ? 
I begged a kiss, I pleaded well : 

The rosebud lips did long decline ; 
But yet I think, I thhik 'tis true. 
That, leaned at last into the dew, 

One little instant they Avere mine. 

O life ! how dear thou hast become : 
She laughed at dawn and I was dumb, 

But evening counsels best prevail. 
Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads, 
Green be the pastures where she treads, 

The maiden with the milkingr-pail ! 



THE LETTER L. 



ABSENT. 




E sat on grassy slopes that meet 
With sudden dip the level strand ; 

The trees hung overhead — our feet 
Were on the sand. 



Two silent girls, a thoughtful man, 

We sunned ourselves in open light, 
And felt such April airs as fan 
The Isle of Wight; 

And smelt the wall-flower in the crag 
Whereon that dainty waft had fed, 
Which made the bell-hung cowslip wag 
Her delicate head ; 

And let alighting jackdaws fleet 

Adown it open-winged, and pass 
Till they could touch with outstretched feet 
The warmed grass. 



,i6 THE LETTER L. 

The liap])y wave ran up and rang 

Like service bells a long way off, 
And do\^^l a little freshet sprang 
From mossy trough, 

And splashed into a rain of spray. 

And fretted on with daylight's loss, 
Because so many bluebells lay 
Leaning across. 

Blue martins gossiped in the sun, 

And pairs of chattering daws flew by. 
And sailing brigs rocked softly on 
In company. 

"Wild cherry-boughs above us spread, 

The whitest shade was ever seen, 
And flicker, flicker, came and fled 
Sun spots between. 

Bees murmured in the milk-white bloom, 

As babes will sigh for deep content 
When their sweet hearts for peace make room, 
As given, not lent. 

And we saw on : we said no word. 

And one was lost in musings rare, 
One buoyant as the waft that stirred 
Her shining hair. 



THE LETTER L. 

His eyes were bent upon the sand, 

Unfathomed deeps within them lay. 
A slender rod was in his hand — 
A hazel spray. 

Her eyes were resting on his face, 

As shyly glad, by stealth to glean 
Impressions of his manly grace 
And guarded mien ; 

The mouth with steady sweetness set, 

And eyes conveying unaware 
The distant hint of some regret 
That harbored there. 

She gazed, and in the tender flush 

That made her face like roses blown, 
And in the radiance and the hush, 
Her thought was shown. 

It was a happy thing to sit 

So near, nor mar his reverie ; 
She looked not for a part in it, 
. So meek was she. 

But it was solace for her eyes, 

And for her heart, that yearned to him, 
To watch apart in loving wise 
Those musuigs dim. 



Ijg THE LETTER L. 

Lost — lost, and gone ! The Pelliam woods 

Were full of doves that cooed at ease ; 
The orchis filled her purple hoods 
For dainty bees. 

He heard not ; all the delicate air 

Was fresh with falling water-spray : 
It mattered not — he was not there, 
But far away. 

Till with the hazel in his hand, 

Still drowned m thought it thus befell ; 
He drew a letter on the sand — 
The letter L. 

^Lud looking on it, straight there wrought 

A ruddy flush about his brow ; 
His letter woke him : absent thought 
Rushed homeward now. 

And half-abashed, his hasty touch 
Effaced it with a tell-tale care. 
As if his action had been much, 
And not his air. 

And she ? she watched his open palm 

Smooth out the letter from the sand, 
And rose, with aspect almost calm. 
And filled her hand 



THE LETTER L. 

With cherry-bloom, and moved away 

To gather wild forget-me-not, 
And let her errant footsteps stray 
To one sweet spot, 

As if she coveted the fair 

White lining of the silver-weed, 
And cuckoo-pint that shaded there 
Empurpled seed. 

She had not feared, as I divine, 

Because she had not hoped. Alas ! 
The sorrow of it ! for that sign 
Came but to pass ; 

And yet it robbed her of the right 

To give, who looked not to receive, 
And made her blush in love's despite 
That she should grieve. 

A shape in white, she turned to gaze ; 

Her eyes were shaded with her hand. 
And half-way up the winding ways 
We saw her stand. 

Green hollows of the fringed cliff, 

Red rocks that under waters show, 
Blue reaches, and a sailing skiff. 
Were spread below. 



119 



120 THE LETTER L. 

She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh, 

Perhaps to think ; but who can tell 
How heavy on her heart must lie 
The letter L 1 



She came anon with quiet grace ; 

And " What," she murmured, " silent yet ! " 
He answered, " 'Tis a haunted place, 
And spell-beset. 

" speak to us, and break the spell ! '* 

" The spell is broken," she replied. 
" I crossed the running brook, it fell. 
It could not bide. 

"And I have brought a budding world, 

Of orchis spires and daisies rank, 
And ferny plumes but half uncurled. 
From yonder bank ; 

"And I shall weave of them a crown. 
And at the well-head launch it free, 
That so the brook may float it down. 
And out to sea. 



THE LETTER L. x^% 

" There may it to some English hands 

From fairy meadow seem to come ; 
The fairyest of fairy lauds — 
The land of home." 

" Weave on," he said, and as she wove 

We told how currents in the deep, 
With branches from a lemon grove, 
Blue bergs will sweep. 

And messages from shipwrecked folk 
Will navigate the moon-led main, 
And painted boards of splintered oak 
Their port regain. 

Then floated out by vagrant thought, 

My soul beheld on torrid sand 
The wasteful water set at nought 
Man's skilfrd hand. 

And suck out gold-dust from the box, 

And wash it down in weedy whirls, 
And split the wine-keg on the rocks, 
And lose the pearls. 



"Ah ! why to that which needs it not," 

Methought, " should costly things be given 
How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot. 
On this side heaven ! " 



122 THE LETTER L. 

So musing, did mine ears awake 

To maiden tones of sweet reserve, 
And manly speech that seemed to make 
The steady curve 

Of lips that uttered it defer 

Their guard, and soften for the thought : 
She listened, and his talk with her 
Was fancy fraught. 

" There is not much in liberty " — 
With doubtful pauses he began ; 
And said to her and said to me, 
" There was a man — 

" There was a man who dreamed one night 

That his dead father came to him ; 

And said, when fire was low, and light 

Was burning dim — 

" ' Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride, 
Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam ? 
Sure home is best ! ' The son replied, 
* I have no home.' 

" * Shall not I speak ? ' his father said, 
' Who early chose a youthful wife, 
And worked for her, and with her led 
My happy life. 



THE LETTER L. 

** * Aj, I will speak, for I was young 
As thou art now, when I did hold 
The prattling sweetness of thy tongue 
Dearer than gold ; 

" ' And rosy from thy noonday sleep 
Would bear thee to admirmg kin, 
And all thy pretty looks would keep 
My heart within. 

" * Then after, mid thy young allies — 
For thee ambition flushed my brow — 
I coveted the school-boy prize 
Far more than thou. 

" * I thought for thee, I thought for all 

My gamesome imps that round me grew- 
The dews of blessing heaviest fall 
Where care falls too. 

** * And I that sent my boys away. 

In youthful strength to earn their bread. 
And died before the hair was gray 
Upon my head — 

" * I say to thee, though free from care, 
A lonely lot, an aimless life, 
The crowning comfort is not there — 
Son, take a wife.' 



123 



124 



THE LETTER L. 

" * Father beloved,' the son replied, 
And failed to gather to his breast, 
With arms in darkness searching wide, 
The formless guest. 

" * I am but free, as sorrow is, 

To dry her tears, to laugh, to talk ; 
And free, as sick men are, I wis 
To rise and walk. 

" * And free, as poor men are, to buy 

If they have nought wherewith to pay ; 
Nor hope, the debt before they die, 
To wipe away. 

" *What 'vails it there are wives to win, 
And faithful hearts for those to yearn. 
Who find not aught thereto akin 
To make return ? 

" * Shall he take much who little gives, 
And dwells in spirit far away. 
When she that in his presence lives 
Doth never stray, 

" * But waking, guideth as beseems 
The happy house in order trim, 
And tends her babes ; and sleeping, dreams 
Of them and him ? 



THE LETTER L. 

* O base, O cold,' "- — while thus he spake 

The dream broke off, the vision fled ; 
He carried ou his speech awake 
And sighing said — 



125 



at 



I had — ah happy man ! — I had 

A precious jewel in my breast, 
And while I kept it I was glad 
At work, at rest ! 



** * Call it a heart, and call it strong 
As upward stroke of eagle's wing ; 
Then call it weak, you shall not wrong 
The beating thing. 

** * In tangles of the jungle reed, 

Whose heats are lit with tiger eyes, 
In shipwreck drifting with the weed 
'Neath rainy skies, 

<* * Still youthful manhood, fresh and keen, 
At danger gazed with awed delight, 
As if sea would not drown, I ween, 
Nor serpent bite. 

** * I had — ah happy ! but 'tis gone. 
The priceless jewel ; one came by, 
And saw and stood awhile to con 
With curious eye, 



,5»6 THE LETTER L. 

" * And wislied for it, and faintly smiled 
From under lashes black as doom, 
With subtle sweetness, tender, mild. 
That did illume 

" ' The perfect face, and shed on it 

A charm, half feeling, half surprise, 
And brim with dreams the exquisite 
Brown blessed eyes. 

" * Was it for this, no more but this, 
I took and laid it in her hand. 
By dimples ruled, to hint submiss, 
By frown unmanned? 

*' * It was for this — and farewell 
The fearless foot, the present mind, 
And steady will to breast the swell 
And face the wind ! 

" * I gave the jewel from my breast, 
She played wath it a little while 
As I sailed down into tlie west. 
Fed by her smile ; 

" ^ Then w^eary of it — far from land, 
With sigh as deep as destiny, 
She let it di-op from her fair hand 
Into the sea, 



TFIE LETTER L. 

* 'And watched it siuk ; and I — and I, — 
What shall I do, for all is vain ? 
No wave will bring, no gold will buy, 
No toil attain ; 

^ * Nor any diver reach to raise 
My jewel from the blue abyss ; 
Or could they, still I should but praise 
Their work amiss. 

" ' Thrown, thrown away ! But I love yet 
The fair, fair hand which did the deed : 
That wajrward sweetness to forget 
Were bitter meed. 

** * No, let it lie, and let the wave 
Roll over it for evermore ; 
Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave ■ 
The sea her store. 

" ' My heart, my sometime happy heart 1 
And O for once let me complain, 
I must forego life's better part — 
Man's dearer gain. 

" " I worked afar that I might rear 
A peaceful home on English soil ; 
I labored for the gold and gear — 
T loved my toil. 



127 



128 THE LETTER L. 

" ' Forever in my spirit spake 

The natural whisper, " Well 'twill be 
When loving wife and children break 
Their bread with thee ! " 



" ' Tlie gathered gold is turned to dross, 
The wife hath faded into air, 
My heart is thrown away, my loss 
I cannot spare. 

" * Not spare unsated thought her food — 
No, not one rustle of the fold, 
Nor scent of eastern sandal-wood, 
Nor gleam of gold ; 

** * Nor quaint devices of the shawl. 
Far less the drooping lashes meek ; 
The gracious figure, lithe and tall, 
The dimpled cheek ; 

** *And all the wonders of her eyes. 
And sweet caprices of her air. 
Albeit, indignant reason cries. 
Fool ! have a care. 

<* ' Fool ! jom not madness to mistake ; 

Thou knowest she loved thee not a whit ; 
Only that she thy heart might break — 
She wanted it. 



THE LETTER L. 

^ ' Only the conquered thing to chain 
So fast that none might set it free, 
Nor other woman there might reign 
And comfort thee. 

•* * Robbed, robbed of life's illusions sweet ; 
Love dead outside her closed door, 
And passion fainting at her feet 
To wake no more; 

** ' What canst thou give that unknown bride 
Whom thou didst work for in the waste, 
Ere fated love was born, and cried — 
Was dead, ungraced ? 

** * No more but this, the partial care. 
The natural kindness for its own, 
The trust that waxeth unaware, 
As worth is known : 

" * Observance, and complacent thought 
Indulgent, and the honor due 
That many another man has brought 
Who brought love too. 

** * Nay, then, forbid it Heaven ! ' he said, 
* The saintly vision fades from me ; 
O bands and chains ! I cannot wed — 
I am not free/ " 



[29 



130 



THE LETTER L. 

With that he raised his face to view : 

" What think you," asking, " of mj tale ? 
And was he right to let the dew 
Of morn exhale, 

"And burdened in the noontide sun, 

The grateful shade of home forego — 
Could he be right — I ask as one 
Who fain would know ? " 

He spoke to her and spoke to me ; 

The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheek ; 
The woven crown lay on her knee ; 
She would not speak. 

And I with doubtful pause — averse 

To let occasion drift away — 
1 answered — " If his case were worse 
Than word can say, 

" Time is a healer of sick hearts, 

And women have been known to choose, 
With purpose to allay their smarts, 
And tend their bruise, 

" These foi themselves. Content to give, 

In their own lavish love complete. 
Taking for sole prerogative 

Their tendance sweet. 



THE LETTER L. 

" Such meeting in their diadem 

Of crowning love's ethereal fire, 
Himself he robs who robbeth them 
Of their desire. 

** Therefore the man who, dreaming, cried 

Against his lot that even-song, 
I judge him honest, and decide 
That he was wrong." 

" When I am judged, ah may my fate," 
He whispered, " in thy code be read ! 
Be thou both judge and advocate." 
Then turned, he said — 

" Fair weaver ! " touching, while he spoke, 

The woven crown, the weaving hand, 
" And do you this decree revoke, 
Or may it stand ? 

" This Mend, you ever think her right — 

She is not wrong, then ? " Soft and low 
The little trembling word took flight : 
She answered, " No." 



13 > 



132 



THE LETTER L. 



PRESENT. 

A meadow where the grass was deep, 

Rich, square, and golden to the view, 
A belt of elms with level sweep 
About it grew. 

The sun beat down on it, the line 

Of shade was clear beneath the trees ; 
There, by a clustering eglantine, 
We sat at ease. 

And O the buttercups ! that field 

O' the cloth of gold, where pennons swam 
Where France set up his lilied shield, 
His oriflamb, 

And Henry's lion-standard rolled : 

What was it to their matchless sheen, 
Their million million drops of gold 
Among the green ! 

We sat at ease in peaceful trust. 

For he had written, " Let us meet ; 
My wife grew tired of smoke and dust. 
And London heat, 



THE LETTER L. 

** And I have found a quiet grange, 

Set back in meadows sloping west, 
And there our little ones can range 
And she can rest. 

" Come down, that we may show the view, 

And she may hear your voice again, 
And talk her woman's talk with you 
Along the lane." 

Since he had drawn with listless hand 
The letter, six long years had fled, 
And winds had blown about the sand. 
And they were wed. 

Two rosy urchins near him played, 

Or watched, entranced, the shapely ships 
That with his knife for them he made 
Of elder slips. 

And where the flowers were thickest shed. 

Each blossom like a burnished gem, 
A creeping baby reared its head. 
And cooed at them. 

And calm was on the father's face. 

And love was in the mother's eyes ; 
She looked and listened from her place, 
In tender wise. 



133 



'34 



THE LETTER L, 

She did not need to raise her voice 

That they might hear, she sat so nigh ; 
Yet we could speak when 'twas our choice, 
And soft reply. 

Holding our quiet talk apart 

Of household things ; till, all unsealed, 
The guarded outworks of the heart 
Began to yield ; 

And much that prudence will not dip 

The pen to fix and send away, 
Passed safely over from the lip 
That summer day. 

" I should be happy," with a look 

Towards her husband where he lay, 
Lost in the pages of his book, 
Soft did she say. 

" I am, and yet no lot below 

For one whole day eludeth care ; 
To marriage all the stories flow, 
And finish there : 

" As if with marriage came the end, 

The entrance into settled rest. 
The calm to which love's tossings tend. 
The quiet breast. 



THE LETTER L. 

'-' For rae love played the low preludes, 

Yet life began but with the ring, 
Such infinite solicitudes 

Around it cling. 

" I did not for my heart divine 

Her destiny so meek to grow ; 
The higher nature matched with mine 
Will have it so. 

" Still I consider it, and still 

Acknowledge it my master made, 
Above me by the steadier will 
Of nought afraid. 

"Above me by the candid speech ; 

The temperate judgment of its own ; 
The keener thoughts that gi-asp and reach 
At things unknown. 

" But I look up and he looks down. 

And thus our married eyes can meet ; 
Unclouded his, and clear of frown, 
And gravely sweet. 

"And yet, O good, wise and true I 

I would for all my fealty. 
That I could be as much to you 
As you to me ; 



135 



136 



THE LETTER L, 

"And knew the deep secure content 

Of wives who have been hardly won. 
And, long petitioned, gave assent, 
Jealous of none. 

" But proudly sure in all the earth 
No other in that homage shares, 
Nor other woman's face or worth 
Is prized as theirs." 

I said : "And yet no lot below 

For one whole day eludeth care. 
Your thought." She answered, " Even so. 
I would beware 

" Regretful questionings ; be sure 
That very seldom do they rise, 
Nor for myself do I endure — 
I sympathize. 

** For once " — she turned away her head, 
Across the grass she swept her hand — 
" There was a letter once," she said, 
" Upon the sand.** 

** There was, in truth, a letter writ 

On sand," I said, " and swept from view ; 
But that same hand which fashioned it 
Is given to you. 



THE LETTER L, 

" Efface the letter ; wherefore keep 

An image which the sands forego ? " 
"Albeit that fear had seemed to sleep/* 
She answered low, 

" I could not choose but wake it now ; 

For do but turn aside your face, 
A house on yonder hilly brow 
Your eyes may trace. 

" The chestnut shelters it ; ah me, 

That I should have so famt a heart! 
But yester-eve, as by the sea 
I sat apart, 

" I heard a name, I saw a hand 

Of passing stranger point that way — 
And will he meet her on the strand, 
When late we stray ? 

" For she is come, for she is there, 
I heard it in the dusk, and heard 
Admiring words, that named her fair. 
But little stirred 

" By beauty of the wood and wave, 

And weary of an old man's sway ; 
For it was sweeter to enslave 
Than to obey.'* 



137 



138 THE LETTER L. 

— The voice of one that near us stood, 

The rustle of a silken fold, 
A scent of eastern sandalwood, 
A gleam of gold ! 

A lady ! In the narrow space 

Between the husband and the wife, 
But nearest him — she showed a face 
"With dangers rife ; 

A subtle smile that dimpling fled, 

As. night-black lashes rose and fell : 
I looked, and to myself I said, 
« The letter L." 

He, too, looked up, and with arrest 

Of breath and motion held his gaze, 
Nor cared to hide within his breast 
His deep amaze ; 

Nor spoke till on her near advance 

His dark cheek flushed a ruddier hue ; 
And with his change of countenance 
Hers altered too. 

" Lenore ! " his voice was like the cry 

Of one entreating ; and he said 
But that — then paused with such a sigh 
As mourns the dead. 



THE LETTER L. 

And seated near, with no demur 

Of bashful doubt she silence broke, 
Though I aloue could answer her 
When first she spoke. 

She looked : her eyes were beauty's own ; 

She shed their sweetness into his ; 
Nor spared the married wife one moan 
That bitterest is. 

She spoke, and lo,her loveliness 

Methought she damaged with her tongue ; 
And every sentence made it less, 
So false they rung. 

The rallying voice, the light demand, 

Half flippant, half unsatisfied ; 
The vanity sincere and bland — 
The answers wide. 

And now her talk was of the East, 

And next her talk was of the sea ; 
" And has the love for it increased 
You shared with me ? " 

He answered not, but grave and still 

With earnest eyes her face perused, 
And locked his lips wdth steady will. 
As one that mused — 



139 



140 THE LETTER L. 

That mused and wondered. Why his gaze 

Should dwell on her, methought, was plain 
But reason that should wonder raise 
I sought in vain. 

And near and near the children drew, 

Attracted by her rich array, 
And gems that trembling into view 
Like raindrops lay. 

He spoke : the wife her baby took 

And pressed the little face to hers ; 
What pain soe'er her bosom shook. 
What jealous stirs 

Might stab her heart, she hid them so, 

The cooing babe a veil supplied ; 

And if she listened none might know, 

Or if she sighed ; 

Or if forecasting grief and care 

Unconscious solace thence she drew, 
And lulled her babe, and unaware 
Lulled sorrow too. 

The lady, she interpreter 

For looks or language wanted none, 
If yet dominion stayed with her — 
So lightly won ; 



THE LETTER L. 

If yel the heart she wounded sore 

Could yeai'n to her, and let her see 
The homage that was evermore 
Disloyalty ; 

If sign would yield that it had bled, 
Or rallied from the faithless blow, 
Oi sick or sullen stooped to wed, 
She craved to know. 

Now dreamy deep, now sweetly keen, 

Her asking eyes would round him shine ; 
But guarded lips and settled mien 
Refused the sign. 

And unbeguiled and unbetrayed, 

The wonder yet within his breast. 
It seemed a watchful part he played 
Against her quest. 

Until with accent of regret 

She touched upon the past once more, 
As if she dared him to forget 
His dream of yore. 

And words of little weight let fall 

The fancy of the lower mind ; 
How waxing life must needs leave all ^ 
Its best behind ; 



141 



142 



THE LETTER L. 

How he had said that "he would fain 
(One morning on the halcyon sea) 
That life would at a stand remain 
Eternally ; 

" And sails be mirrored in the deep, 
As then they were, for evermore, 
And happy spirits wake and sleep 
Afar from shore : 

" The well-contented heart be fed 
Ever as then, and all the world 
(It were not small) unshadowed 
When sails were furled. 

" Your words " — a pause, and quietly 

With touch of calm self-ridicule : 
" It may be so — for then," said he, 
" I was a fool." 

With that he took his book, and left 

An awkward silence to my care, 
That soon I filled ynih. questions deft 
And debonair ; 

And slid into an easy vein, 

The favorite picture of the year ; 

The grouse upon her lord's domain — > 

The salmon weir ; 



THE LETTER L. 

Till she could fain a sudden thought 

Upon neglected guests, and rise, 
And make us her adieux, with nought 
In her dark eyes 

Acknowledging or shame or pain ; 
But just unveiling for our view 
A little smile of still disdain 
As she withdrew. 

Then nearer did the sunshine creep, 

And warmer came the wafting breeze ; 
The little babe was fast asleep 
On mother's knees. 

Fair was the face that o'er it leant, 

The cheeks Avith beauteous blushes dyed ; 
The downcast lashes, shyly bent, 
That failed to hide 

Some tender shame. She did not see ; 
She felt his eyes that would not stir, 
She looked upon her babe, and he 
So looked at her. 

So grave, so wondering, so content, 

As one new waked to conscious life, 
Whose sudden joy with fear is blent, 
He said, " My wife." 



H3 



144 ^^^ LETTER L. 

" My wife, how beautiful you are ! " 
Then closer at her side reclined, 
" The bold brown woman from afar 
Comes, to me blind. 

"And by comparison, I see 

The majesty of matron grace. 
And learn how pure, how fair can be 
My own wife's face : 

" Pure with all faithful passion, fair 

With tender smiles that come and go 5 
And comforting as April air 
After the snow. 

" Fool that I was ! my spirit frets 

And marvels at the humbling truth, 
That I have deigned to spend regrets 
On my bruised youth. 

" Its idol mocked thee, seated nigh. 

And shamed me for the mad mistake ; 
I thank my God he could deny, 
And she forsake. 

" Ah, who am I, that God hath saved 
Me from the doom I did desire, 
And crossed the lot myself had craved, 
To set me higher? 



THE LETTER L. 145 

" What have I done that He should bow 
From heaven to choose a wife for me ? 
And what deserved, He should endow 
My home with thee? 

" My wife ! " With that she turned her taoe 

To kiss the hand about her neck ; 
And I went down and sought the place 
Where leaped the beck — 

The busy beck, that still would run 

And fall, and falter its refrain ; 

And pause and shimmer in the sun, 

And fall again. 

It led me to the sandy shore, 

We sang together, it and I — 
** The daylight comes, the dark is o'er, 
The shadows fly." 

I lost it on the sandy shore, 

" O wife I " its latest murmurs fell, 
" O wife, be glad, and fear no more 
The letter L/' 



10 




rilE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LIN 
COLNSHIRE. 

(1571.) 

HE old major climbed the belfry tower, 

The ringers ran by two, by three ; 
" Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 
" Play uppe, play uppe, Boston bells ! 
Ply all your changes, all your swells, 

Play uppe ' The Brides of Enderby/ " 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — 

The Lord that sent it, He knows all ; 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall : 

And there was nought of strange, beside 

The flights of mews and peewits pied 

By millions crouched on the old sea wall. 

I sat and spun within the doore, 

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes ; 

The level sun, like ruddy ore. 
Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 



THE HIGH TIDE. 

And dark against day's golden death 
She moved where Lindis wanderetli, 
My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " caUing, 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heai'd her song. 
" Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along ; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth, 
From the meads where melick groweth 
Faintly came her milking song — 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
" For the dews will soone be falUng ; 
Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 

. Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, 
From the clovers lift your head ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 

If it be long, ay, long ago, 

Wlien 1 beginne to think howe long. 



H7 



j^g THE HIGH TIDE. 

Againe I hear the LIndis flow, 

Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong ; 
And all the aire, it seemeth mee, 
Bin i'nll of floating bells (sayth shee), 
That ring the tune of P^nderby. 

Alle fi-esh the level pasture lay, 
And not a shadowe mote be seene, 

Save where full fyve good miles away 
The steeple towered from out the greene ; 

And lo ! the great bell far re and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Saturday at eventide. 

The swanherds where their sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath. 
The shepherde lads I heard afaiTe, 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 
Till floating o'er the grassy sea 
Came downe that kyndly message free, 
The " Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe jnto the sky, 
And all along where Lindis flows 

To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 

They sayde, " And why should this thing be ? 

What danger lowers by land or sea ? 

They ring the tune of Enderby ! 



THE^ HIGH TIDE. 149 

" For evil news from Mablethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys warping down ; 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the towne : 
But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee. 
Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby ' ? " 

I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 

Came riding downe with might and main : 

He raised a shout as he di-ew on, 
Till all the welkin rang again, 

" Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! " 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

" The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, 

The rising tide comes on apace, 
And boats adrift in yonder towne 

Go sailing uppe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death : 
" God save you, mother ! '' straight he saith ; 
" Where is my wife, Elizabeth ? " 

" Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away, 
With her two bairns I marked her long ; 

And ere yon bells beganne to play 
Alar 1 heard lier nillkinor song." 

He looked across the grassy lea, 



1^0 THE HIGH T^DE. 

To right, to left, " Ho Enderby ! " 
They rang " The Brides of Enderby I " 



With that he cried and beat his breast ; 

Foi", lo ! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest, 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud ; 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward pressed. 

Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; 
Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout 
Then beaten foam flew round about — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave. 
The heart had hardly time to beat, 

Before a shallow seething wave 
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : 

The feet had hardly time to flee 

Before it brake against the knee. 

And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sate that night, 
The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 



THE HIGH TIDE. 151 

I marked the lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red and high — 
A lurid mark and dread to see ; 
And awsome bells they were to mee, 
That in the dark rang " Enderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 

" come in life, or come in death ! 

O lost ! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more ? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; 
The waters laid thee at his doore, 

Ere yet the early da-\vn was clear. 
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sim shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To raanye more than myne and me : 

But each will mourn his own (she saith). 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 



152 



THE HIGH TIDE. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 
« Cusha! Ciisha! Cusha ! " calling, 
Ere the early dews be fallmg ; 
I shall never hear her song, 
" Cusha! Cusha ! '' all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the meads where melick groweth, 
When the water winding down, 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver. 

Shiver, quiver ; 
Stand beside the sobbing river. 
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 
To the sandy lonesome shore ; 
I shall never hear her calling, 
" Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot 
Quit your pipes of pai'sley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow ; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From your clovers lift the head ; 
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 




AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

^THE PAUSON'S brother, SISTER, AND TWO CHILDREN.) 

Preface. 

HAT wonder man should fail to stay 
A nursling Avafted from above, 
The growtii celestial come astray, 
That tender growth whose name is Love ! 

It is as if high winds in heaven 

Had shaken the celestial trees. 
And to this earth below had given 

Some feathered seeds from one of these. 

O perfect love that 'dureth long ! 

Deal' growth, that, shaded by the palms, 
And breathed on by the angel's song, 

Blooms on iu heaven's eternal calms ! 

How great the task to guard thee here. 
Where wind is rough and frost is keen, 

And all the ground with doubt and fear 
Is checkered, birtli and death between I 



154 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

Space is against thee — it can part ; 

Time is against thee — it can chill ; 
Words — they but render half the heart ; 

Deeds — they are poor to our rich will. 



Merton. rThough she had loved me, I had never bound 
Her beauty to my darkness ; that had been 
Too hard for her. Sadder to look so near 
Into a face all shadow, than to stand 
Aloof, and then withdraw, and afterwards 
Suffer forgetfulness to comfort her. 
I think so, and I loved her ; therefore I 
Have no complaint ; albeit she is not mine : 
And yet — and yet, withdrawing I would fain 
She would have pleaded duty — would have said 
" My father wills it " ; would have tiu-ned away, 
As lingering, or unwillingly ; for then 
She would have done no damage to the past : 
Now she has roughly used it — flung it down 
And brushed its bloom away. If she had said, 
" Sir, I have promised ; therefore, lo ! my hand " — 
Would I have taken it ? Ah no ! by all 
IMost sacred, no ! 

1 would for my sole share 
Have taken first her recollected blush 
The day 1 won her ; next her shining tears — 
The tears of our long parting ; and for all 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 155 

The rest — her cry, her bitter heart-sick cry, 

That day or night (I know not which it was, 

The days being always night), that darkest night, 

When being led to her I heard her cry, 

« O blind ! blind ! blind ! " 

Go with thy chosen mate: 

The fashion of thy going nearly cured 

The sorrow of it. I am yet so weak 

That half my thoughts go after thee ; but not 

So weak that I desire to have it so. 

Jessie, seated at the piano, sings. 

When the dimpled water slippeth, 

Full of laughter, on its way, 
And her wing the wagtail dippeth, 

Running by the brink at play ; 
When the poplar leaves atremble 

Turn their edges to the light, 
And the far-up clouds resemble 

Veils of gauze most clear and white ; 
And the sunbeams fall and flatter 

Woodland moss and branches brown. 
And the glossy finches chatter 

Up and down, up and down : 
Though the heart be not attending, 

Having music of her own. 
On the grass, through meadows wonding- 

It is sweet to walk alone. 

When the falling waters utter 

Something mournful on their way, 
And departing swallows flutter, 



136 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

Taking leave of bank and brae ; 
Wlien the cliaffinch idly sitteth 

With her mate upon the sheaves. 
And the wistful robin flitteth 

Over beds of yellow leaves ; 
When the clouds, like ghosts that ponder 

Evil fate, float by and frown, 
And the listless wind doth wander 

Up and down, up and down : 
Though the heart be not attending. 

Having sorrows of her own, 
Through the fields and fallows wending. 

It is sad to walk alone. 

Merton. Blind ! blind ! blind ! 
Oh ! sitting in the dark for evermore, 
And doing nothing — putting out a hand 
To feel what lies about me, and to say 
Not " This is blue or red," but " This is cold, 
And this the sun is shining on, and this 
I know not till they tell its name to me." 

O that I might behold once more, my God ! 
The shining rulers of the night and day ; 
Or a star twinkling ; or an almond-tree, 
Pink with her blossom and alive with bees, 
Standing agauist the azure ! my sight ! 
Lost, and yet living in the sunlit cells 
Of memory — that only lightsome place 
Where Hngers yet the daysprmg of my youth ; 
The years of mourning for thy death are long. 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. j^y 

Be kind, sweet memory ! O desert me not ! 

For oft thou show'st me lucent opal seas, 

Fringed with their cocoa-palms and dwarf red crags, 

Whereon the placid moon doth " rest her chin " ; 

For oft by favor of thy visitings 

I feel the dimness of an Indian night, 

And lo ! the sun is coming. Red as rust 

Between the latticed blind his presence bums, 

A ruby ladder running up the wall ; 

And all the dust, printed with pigeons' feet, 

Is reddened, and the crows that stalk anear 

Begin to trail for heat their glossy wings, 

And the red flowers give back at once the dew, 

For night is gone, and day is born so fast, 

And is so strong, that, huddled as in flight, 

The fleeting darkness paleth to a shade, 

And while she calls to sleep and dreams " Come on/' 

Suddenly waked, the sleepers rub their eyes. 

Which having opened, lo ! she is no more. 

O misery and mourning ! I have felt — 
Yes, I have felt like some deserted world 
That God had done with, and had cast aside 
To rock and stagger through the gulfs of space, 
He never looking on it any more — 
Untilled, no use, no pleasure, not desired. 
Nor lighted on by angels in their flight 
From heaven to happier planets, and the race 
That once had dwelt on it withdrawn or dead. 



i^S AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

Could such a world have hope that some blest day 
God would remember her, and fashion her 
Anew? 

Jessie. What, dearest ? Did you speak to me ? 

C/nld. I think he spoke to us. 

M No, little elves, 

You were so quiet that I half forgot 
Your neighborhood. What are you doing there ? 

J. They sit together on the window-mat 
Nursing their dolls. 

C. Yes, Uncle, our new dolls — 

Our best dolls, that you gave us. 

M. Did you say 

The afternoon was bright ? 

J. Yes, bright indeed I 

The sun is on the plane-tree, and it flames 
All red and orange. 

G, I can see my father — 

Look ! look ! the leaves are falling on his gown. 

M. Where? 

C. In the churchyard, Uncle — he is gone; 

He passed behind the tower. 

M. I heard a bell : 

There is a fimeral, then, behind the church. 

2d Child. Are the trees sorry when their leaves drop 
off? 

1st Child. You talk such silly words ; — no, not at all 
There goes another leaf. 

2c? Child, I did not see. 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE, 



^59 



1st Child. Look ! on the grass, between the little hills, 
Jiist where they planted Amy. 

J. Amy died — - 

Dear little Amy ! when you talk of her, 
Say, she is gone to heaven. 

2d Child. They planted her — 

Will she come up next year ? 

\st Child. No, not so soon ; 

But some day God will call her to come up. 
And then she will. Papa knows everythhig — 
He said she would before he planted her. 

2d Child. It was at night she went to heaven. Last 
night 
We saw a star before we went to bed. 

1st Child. Yes, Uncle, did you know ? A large bright 
star, 
And at her side she had some little ones — 
8ome young ones. 

M. Young ones ! no, my little maid, 

Those stars are very old. 

1st Child. What ! all of them ? 

M. Yes. 

1st Child. Older than our father ? 

M. Older, far. 

2d Child. They must be tired of shining there so 
long. 
Perhaps they wish they might come down. 

J. Perhaps I 

Dear children, talk of what you understand. 



r6o AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

Come, I must lift the trailing creepers up 
That last night's wind has loosened. 

1st Child. May we help ? 

Aunt, may we help to nail them ? 

J. We shall see. 

Go, find and bring the hammer, and some shreds. 

[^Steps outside the window^ lifts a branchy and sings.'] 
Should I change my allegiance for rancor 

If fortune changes her side ? 
Or should I, like a vessel at anchor, 

Turn with the turn of the tide ? 
Lift! lift, thou lowering sky; 

An thou wilt, thy gloom forego ! 
An thou wilt not, he and I 
Need not part for drifts of snow. 

M. [within"] Lift ! no, thou lowering sky, thou wilt not 
lift — 
Thy motto readeth, " Never." 

Children. Here they are ! 

Here are the nails ! and may we help ? 

J. You shall, 

If T should want help. 

1st Child. Will you want it, then ? 

Please want it — we like nailing. 

2c? Child. Yes, we do. 

J. It seems I ought to want it : hold the bough, 
And each may nail in turn. 

[Sings.] 
Like a daisy I was, near him growing : 
Must I move because favors flag, 



AFTERl^OON AT A PARSONAGE. i6l 

And be like a brown wall-flower blowing 

Far out of reach in a crag 1 
Lift! lift, thou lowering sky; 

An tliou canst, thy blue regain ! 
An thou canst not, he and I 

Need not part tor drops of rain. 

1st Child. Now, have we nailed enough ? 

J. [^trains the creepers^ Yes, you may go ; 
But do not play too near the churchyard path. 

M. \_within'] Even misfortune does not strike so near 
As my dependence. O, in youth and strength 
To sit a timid coward in the dark, 
And feel before I set a cautious step ! 
It is so very dark, so far more dark 
Than any night that day comes after — night 
In which there would be stars, or else at least 
The silvered portion of a sombre cloud 
Through which the moon is plunging. 

J. [enter{ng~\ Merton ! 

M. Yes. 

/. Dear Merton, did you know that I could hear ? 

M. No : e'en my solitude is not mine now, 
And if I be alone is ofttimes doubt. 
Alas ! far more than eyesight have I lost ; 
For manly courage drifteth after it — 
E'en as a splintered spar would drift away 
From some dismasted wreck. Hear, I complain — 
Like a weak ailing woman I complain. 

J. For the first time. 
U 



l62 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

M. I cannot bear the dark. 

J. My brother ! you do bear it — bear it Avell — 
Have borne it twelve long months, and not complained. 
C'Oinfort your heart with music : all the air 
Is warm with sunbeams where the organ stands, 
'^'ou like to feel them on you. Come and play. 

Jll. My fate, my fate is lonely ! 

J. So it is — 

I know it is. 

M, And pity breaks my heart. 

/. Does it, dear Merton ? 

M. Yes, I say it does. 

What ! do you think I am so dull of ear 
That I can mark no changes in the tones 
That reach me ? Once I liked not girlish pride 
And that coy quiet, chary of reply, 
That held me distant : now the sweetest lips 
Open to entertain me — fairest hands 
Are proffered me to guide. 

J. That is not well ? 

M. No : give me coldness, pride, or still disdain, 
Gentle withdrawal. Give me anythmg 
But this — a fearless, sweet, confiding ease, 
Whereof I may expect, I may exact, 
Considerate care, and have it — gentle speech, 
And have it. Give me anything but this ! 
For they who give it, give it in the faith 
That I will not misdeem them, and forget 
My doom so far as to perceive thereby 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 163 

Hope of a wife. Thej make this thought too plain ; 

They wound me — O they cut me to the heart ! 

"WTien have I said to any one of them, 

" I am a blind and desolate man ; — come here, 

I pray you — be as eyes to me ? " "When said, 

Even to her whose pitying voice is sweet 

To my dark ruined heart, as must be hands 

That clasp a lifelong captive's through the grate, 

And who will ever lend her delicate aid 

To guide me, dark encumbrance that I am ! -^ 

When have I said to her, " Comforting voice, 

Belonging to a face unknown, 1 pray 

Be my wife's voice ? " 

J. Never, my brother — no. 

You never have ! 

M. What could she think of me 

If I forgot myself so far ? or what 
Could she reply ? 

J. You ask not as men ask 

Who care for an opinion, else perhaps, 
Although I am not sure — although, perhaps, 
I have i\o right to give one — I should say 
She would reply, " I will " 



Afterthought. 

Man dwells apart, though not alone, 
He walks among his peers unread 



l64 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE, 

The best of thoughts which he hath known. 
For lack of listeners are not said. 



Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles, 
He saith " They dwell not lone like men, 

Forgetful that their sunfiecked smiles 
Flash far beyond each other's ken." 

He looks on God's eternal suns 

That sprinkle the celestial blue, 
And saith, " Ah ! happy shining ones, 

I would that men were grouped like you ! ^ 

Yet this is sure, the loveliest star 
That clustered with its peers we see, 

Only because from us so far 

Doth near its fellows seem to be. 





SONGS OF SEVEN. 

SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION. 

HERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover, 
There's no rain left in heaven : 
I've said my " seven times " over and over, 
Seven times one are seven. 

I am old, so old, I can write a letter ; 

My birthday lessons are done ; 
The lambs play always, they know no better ; 

They are only one times one. 

moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 
And shining so round and low ; 

Vou were bright ! ah bright ! but your light is failing ■ 
You are nothing now but a bow. 

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven 
That God has hidden your face ? 

1 hope if you have you will soon be forgiven, 

And sliiiie again in your place. 



1 66 SONGS OF SEVEN. 

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, 
You've powdered your legs with gold ! 

brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, 
Give me your money to hold ! 

O columbine, open your folded wrapper, 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 

cuckoo pint, toll me the purple clapper 
That hangs in your clear green bell ! 

And show me your nest with the young ones in it ; 
I will not steal them away ; 

1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet — 

I am seven times one to-day. 



SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. 

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, 

How many soever they be. 
And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges 

Come over, come over to me. 

Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling 

No magical sense conveys, 
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling 

The fortune of future days. 



SONGS OF SEVEN. j^j 

*' Turn agai n, turn again," once they rang cheerily, 

Wiiile a boy listened alone ; 
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily 

All by himself on a stone. 

Poor bells ! I forgive you ; your good days are over, 

And mine, they are yet to be ; 
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover : 

You leave the story to me. 

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, 

And hangeth her hoods of snow ; 
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather : 

O, children take long to gi-ow. 

I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, 

Nor long summer bide so late ; 
And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, 

For some things are ill to wait. 

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, 

While dear hands are laid on my head ; 
" The child is a woman, the book may close over. 

For all the lessons are said." 

[ wait for my story — the birds cannot sing it, 

Not one, as he sits on the tree ; 
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it ! 

Such as I wish it to be. 



f68 SONGS OF SEVEN. 



SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE. 

I LEA.NED out of window, I smelt the white clover, 
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate ; 
" Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover — 
Hush, nightingale, hush ! O, sweet nightmgale, wail 
Till I listen and hear 
J£ a step draweth near. 
For my love he is late ! 

" The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, 

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, 

The fall of the water comes sweeter, conies clearer : 

To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see ? 

Let the star-clusters glow, 

Let the sweet waters flow, 

And cross quickly to me. 

" You night-moths that hover where honey brims over 

From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 
You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover 
To him that comes darkluig along the rough steep. 
Ah, my sailor, make haste. 
For the time runs to waste. 
And my love lieth deep — 

** Too deep for swift telling : and yet my one lover 
I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 



169 



By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, 
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took fiight : 
But 111 love him more, more 
Than e'er wife loved before, 
Be the days dark or bright. 



SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY. 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! 
When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, 

And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! 
Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, 
Eager to gather them all. 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow. 

That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain ; 
Sing, " Heart, thou art wide though the house be but 
narrow " — 

Sing once, and sing it again. 

rieigh ho ! daisies and buttercups. 

Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow ; 



lyo SONGS OF SEVEN. 

A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, 

And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. 
bonny brown sons, and sweet little daaghtei*s, 
Maybe he thinks on you now ! 

rieigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall — 

A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, 

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall ! 

Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, 
God that is over us all ! 



SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD. 

I SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan 

Before I am well awake ; 
" Let me bleed ! let me alone, 

Since I must not break ! " 

For children wake, though fathers sleep 
With a stone at foot and at head : 

sleepless God, forever keep, 
Keep both living and dead ! 

1 lift mine eyes, and what to see 

But a world happy and fair! 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 

1 have not wished it to mourn with me — 
Comfort is not there. 

O what anear but golden brooms, 
And a waste of reedy rills ! 

what afar but the jGme glooms 
On the rare blue hills ! 

1 shall not die, but live forlore — 

How bitter it is to part ! 

to meet thee, my love, once more ! 
my heart, my heart ! 

No more to hear, no more to see ! 

that an echo might wake 

And waft one note of thy psalm to me 
Ere my heart-strings break ! 

1 should know it how faint soe'er, 
And with angel voices blent ; 

once to feel thy spirit anear, 

1 could be content ! 

Or once between the gates of gold, 
While an angel entering trod. 

But once — thee sitting to behold 
On the hills of God ! 



172 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 



SEVEN TRIES SIX. GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 

To bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To watch, and then to lose : 
To see my bright ones disappear, 

Drawn up like morning dews — 
To bear, to nm^se, to rear. 

To watch, and then to lose : 
This have I done when God drew near 

Among his own to choose. 

To hear, to heed, to wed. 

And with thy lord depart 
In teal's that he, as soon as shed, 

Will let no longer smart. — 
To hear, to heed, to wed. 

This while thou didst I smiled, 
For now it was not God who said, 
" Mother, give me thy child." 

O fond, fool, and blind. 

To God I gave with tears ; 
But when a man like grace would find, 

My soul put by her fears — 
O fond, fool, and blind, 

God guards in happier spheres ; 
That man will guard where he did bind 

Is hope for miknown years. 



SONGS OF SEVEN. ly^ 

To bear, to heed, to wed, 

Fair lot that maidens choose, 
Thy mother's tenderest words are said, 

Thy face no more she views ; 
Thy mother's lot, my dear, 

She doth in nought accuse ; 
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To love — and then to lose. 



SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR HOME. 



A SONG of a boat : — 
There was once a boat on a billow : 
Lightly she rocked to her port remote, 
And the foam was white in her wake like snow, 
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow 
And bent like a wand of willow. 

II. 

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 

Went curtseying over the billow, 
T marked her course till a dancing mote 
She faded out on the moonlit foam, 
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home ; 
And my thoughts all day were about the boat, 
And my dreams upon the pillow. 



174 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 



ui, 

I pray you hear my song of a boat, 

For it is but short : — 
My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, 

In river or port. 
Long I looked out for the lad she bore, 

On the open desolate sea, 
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, 
For he came not back to me — 

Ah me! 

IV. 

A song of a nest : — 

There was once a nest in a hollow : 

Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, 

Soft and warm, and full to the brim — 

Vetches leaned over it purple and dim. 

With buttercup buds to follow. 

V. 

1 pray you hear my song of a nest, 

For it is not long : — 
You shall never light, in a summer quest 

The bushes among — 
Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 

A fairer nestful, nor ever know 
A softer sound than their tender twitter. 
That wind-like did come and go. 



» 



SONGS OF SEVEN. I«5 

VI. 

I had a nestful once of my own, 

Ah happy, happy I ! 
Bight dearly I loved them : but when they were grown 

They spread out their wings to fly — 
O, one after one they flew away 

Far up to the heavenly blue, 
To the better country, the upper day. 

And — I wish I was going too. 

VII. 

I pray you, what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest ? 
And what is the shore where I stood to see 

My boat sail down to the west ? 
Can I call that home where I anchor yet, 

Though my good man has sailed ? 
Can I call that home where my nest was set, 

Now all its hope hath failed ? 
Nay, but the port where my sailor went. 

And the land where my nestlings be : 
There is the home where my thoughts ai-e sent, 

The only home for me — 

Ah me! 




A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 

'E reached the place by night, 
'^ And heard the waves breaking : 

They came to meet us with candles alight 
To show the path we were taking. 
A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white 
With tufted flowers down shaking. 

With head beneath her wing, 

A little wren was sleeping — 
So near, I had found it an easy thing 

To steal her for my keeping 
From the myrtle-bough that with easy swing 

Across the path was sweeping. 

Down rocky steps rough-hewed, 

Where cup-mosses flowered, 
And under the trees, all twisted and rude, 

Wherewith the dell was dowered. 
They led us, where deep in its solitude 

Lay the cottage, leaf-embowered. 

The thatch was all bespread 
With climbing passion-flowers ; 



A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 177 

They were wet, and glistened with raindrops, shed 

That day in genial showers. 
" Was never a sweeter nest," we said, 

" Than this little nest of oui-s." 

We laid lis down to sleep : 

But as for me — waking, 
I marked the plunge of the muffled deep 

On its sandy reaches breaking ; 
For heart-joy ance doth sometimes keep 

From slumber, like heai-t-aching. 

And I was glad that night, 

With no reason ready. 
To give my own heart for its deep delight, 

That flowed like some tidal eddy, 
Or shone like a star that was rising bright 

With comforting radiance steady. 

But on a sudden — hark ! 

Music struck asunder 
Those meslies of bliss, and I wept in the dark. 

So sweet was the unseen wonder ; 
So swiftly it touched, as if struck at a mark, 

The trouble that joy kept under. 

I rose — tlie moon outshone : 

I saw the sea heaving. 
And a little vessel sailing alone, 
12 



178 ^ COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 

The small crisp wavelet cleaving ; 
'Twas she as she sailed to her port unknown 
Was that track of sweetness leaving. 



We know they music made 

In heaven, ere man's creation ; 
But when God threw it down to us that strayed, 

It dropt with lamentation, 
And ever since doth its sweetness shade 

With sighs for its first station. 

Its joy suggests regret — 

Its most for more is yearning ; 
And it brings to the soul that its voice hath met, 

No rest that cadence learning, 
But a conscious part in the sighs that fret 

Its nature for returning. 

O Eve, sweet Eve ! methought 
When sometimes comfort winning, 

As she watched the first children's tender sport, 
Sole joy born since her sinning. 

If a bird anear them sang, it brought 
The pang as at beginning. 

While sw^am the unshed tear, 

Her prattlers little heeding, 
Would murmur, " This bird, with its carol clear. 

When the red clay was kneadeu, 



A COTTAGE IN A. CHINE. ijg 

And God made Adam our father dear, 
SaQg to him thus in Eden.'* 



The raoon went in — the sky 

And earth and sea hiding, 
I laid me down, with the yearning sigh 

Of that strain in my heart abiding : 
I slept, and the barque that had sailed so nigh 

In my dream was ever gliding. 

I slept, but waked amazed, 

With sudden noise frighted, 
And voices without, and a flash that dazed 

My eyes from candles lighted. 
"Ah ! surely," methought, " by these shouts upraised 

Some travellers are benighted." 

A voice was at my side — 

" Waken, madam, waken ! 
The long prayed-for ship at her anchor doth ride. 

Let the child from its rest be taken. 
For the captain doth weary for babe and for bride — 

Waken, madam, waken ! 

" The home you left but late, 

He speeds to it liglit-hearted ; 
By the wires he sent this news, and straight 
• To you with it tliey started." 
O joy for a yearning heart too great, 

() union for the paited ! 



l8o A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 

We rose up in the night, 

The morning star was shining ; 
We carried the child in its slumber light 

Out by the myrtles twining : 
Orion over the sea hung bright, 

And glorious in declining. 

Mother, to meet her son. 

Smiled first, then wept the rather ; 
And wife, to bind up those links undone, 

And cherished words to gather. 
And to show the face of her little one, 

That had never seen its father. 

That cottage in a chine 

We were not to behold it ; 
But there may the purest of sunbeams shine. 

May freshest flowers enfold it, 
For sake of the news which our hearts must twine 

With the bower w^here we were told it ! 

Now oft, left lone again. 

Sit mother and sit daughter. 
And bless the good ship that sailed over the main. 

And the favormg winds that brought her ; 
Willie still some new beauty they fable and feign 

For tlie cottage by the water. 




PERSEPHONE. 

(Written for Tue Portfolio Society, January, 1862. 
Subject given — " Light and Shade.") 

JHE stepped upon Sicilian grass, 

Demeter's daughter fresh and fair, 
A child of light, a radiant lass, 
And gamesome as the morning air. 
The daffodils were fair to see, 
They nodded lightly on the lea, 
Persephone — Persephone ! 

Lo ! one she marked of rarer growth 

Than orchis or anemone ; 
For it the maiden left them both, 

And parted from her company. 
Drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still, 
And stooped to gather by the rill 
The daffodil, the daffodil. 

What ailed the meadow that it shook? 

What ailed the air of Sicily ? 
She wondered by the brattling brook, 



1 82 LIGHT AND SHADE. 

And trembled with the trembling lea. 
" The coal-black horses rise — they rise : 
O mother, mother ! " low she cries — 
Persephone — Persephone ! 

'* O light, light, light ! " she cries, " farewell 
The coal-black horses wait for me. 

O shade of shades, where I must dwell, 
pemeter, mother, far from thee ! 

Ah, fated doom that I fulfil ! 

Ah, fateful flower beside the rill ! 

The daffodil, the daffodil ! " 

What ails her that she comes not home ? 

Demeter seeks her far and wide, 
And gloomy-browed doth ceaseless roam 

From many a morn till eventide. 
" My life, immortal though it be. 
Is nought," she cries, " for want of thee, 
Persephone — Persephone ! 

" Meadows of Enna, let the rain 
No longer drop to feed your rills. 

Nor dew refresh the fields again. 
With all their nodding daffodils ! 

Fade, fade and droop, O lilied lea. 

Where thou, dear heart, wert reft from me - 

Persephone — Persephone ! " 



LIGHT AND SHADE. 183 

She reigns upon her dusky throne, 
Mid shades of heroes dread to see ; 

Among the dead she breathes alone, 
Persephone — Persephone ! 

Or seated on the Elysian hill 

She dreams of earthly daylight still, 

And murmurs of the daffodil. 

A voice in Hades soundeth clear, 
The shadows mourn and flit below ; 

It cries — " Thou Lord of Hades, hear, 
And let Demeter's daughter go. 

The tender corn upon the lea 

Droops in her goddess gloom when she 

Cries for her lost Persephone. 

" From land to land she raging flies. 
The green fruit falleth in her wake, 

And harvest fields beneath her eyes 
To earth the grain um'ipened shake. 

Arise, and set the maiden free ; 

Why should the world such sorrow dree 

By reason of Persephone ? " 

He takes the cleft pomegranate seeds : 
" Love, eat with me this parting day ; " 

Then bids them fetch the coal-black steeds — 
" Demeter's daughter, wouldst away ? " 

The gates of Hades set her free : 



l84 LIGHT AND SHADE. 

" She will return full soon," saith he — 
" My wife, mj wife Persephone." 

Low laughs the dark king on his throne — 

" I gave her of pomegranate seeds." 
Demeter's daughter stands alone 
Upon the fair Eleusian meads. 
Her mother meets her. " Hail ! " saith she 
" And doth our daylight dazzle thee, 
My love, my child Persephone ? 

" What moved thee, daughter, to forsake 
Thy fellow-maids that fatal morn, 

And give thy dark lord power to take 
Thee living to his realm forlorn ? " 

Her lips reply without her will, 

As one addressed who slumbereth still — 

" The daffodil, the daffodil ! " 

Her eyelids droop with light oppressed, 
And sunny wafts that round her stir, 

Her cheek upon her mother's breast — 
Demeter's kisses comfort her. 

Calm Queen of Hades, art thou she 

Who stepped so lightly on the lea — 

Persephone, Persephone ? 

When, in her destined course, the moon 
Meets the deep shadow of this world, 



LIGHT AND SHADE. 185 

And laboring on doth seem to swoon 

Through awful wastes of dimness whirled — 
Emerged at length, no trace hath she 
Of that dark hour of destiny, 
Still silvery sweet — Persephone. 

The greater world may near the less, 

And draw it through her weltering shade, 

But not one biding trace impress 
Of all the darkness that she made ; 

The greater soul that draweth thee 

Hath left his shadow plain to see 

On thy fair face, Persephone ! 

Demeter sighs, but sure 'tis well 

The wife should love her destiny : 
They part, and yet, as legends tell. 

She mourns her lost Persephone ; 
Wliile chant the maids of Enna still — 
" fateful flower beside the rill — 
The daffodn, the daffodU ! " 





A SEA SONG. 

LD ALBION sat on a crag of late, 
^ And sung out — " Ahoy ! ahoy ! 
Long life to the captain, good luck to the mate, 
And this to my sailor boy ! 
Come over, come home, 
Through the salt sea foam, 
My sailor, my sailor boy. 

" Here's a crown to be given away, I ween, 

A crown for my sailor's head. 
And all for the worth of a widowed queen, 
And the love of the noble dead ; 
And the fear and fame 
Of the island's name 
Where my boy was born and bred. 

•* Content thee, content thee, let it alone, 

Thou marked for a choice so rare ; 
Though treaties be treaties, never a throne 
Was proffered for cause as fair. 
Yet come to me home. 
Through the salt sea foam, 
For the Greek must ask elsewhere. 



A SEA SONG. 



187 



** 'Tis pity, my sailor, but who can tell ? 

Many lands they look to me ; 
One of these might be wanting a Prince as well. 
But that's as hereafter may be." 
She raised her white head 
And laughed ; and she said 
" That's as hereafter may be.** 





BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

T was a village built in a green rent, 
Between two cliffs that skirt the dangerous bay. 



A reef of level rock runs out to sea, 
And you may lie on it and look sheer down, 
Just where the " Grace of Sunderland " was lost, 
And see the elastic banners of the dulse 
Rock softly, and the orange star-fish creep 
Across the laver, and the mackerel shoot 
Over and under it, like silver boats 
Turning at will and plying under water. 

There on that reef we lay upon our breasts, 

My brother and I, and half the village lads, 

For an old fisherman had called to us 

With " Sirs, the syle be come." "And what are they ? *' 

My brother said. " Good lack ! " the old man cried, 

And shook his head ; " To think you gentlefolk 

Should ask what syle be ! Look you ; I can't say 

Wliat syle be called in your fine dictionaries, 

Nor what name God Almighty calls them by 

When their food's ready and He sends them south : 

But our folk call them syle, and nought but syle, 

And when they're grown, why then we call them herring. 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 189 

I tell you, Sir, the water is as fiill 
Of them as pastures be of blades of grass ; 
You'll draw a score out in a landing net, 
And none of them be longer than a pin. 

*' Syle ! ay, indeed, we should be badly off, 
I reckon, and so would God Almighty's gulls,** 
He gi'umbled on in his quaint piety, 
" And all His other birds, if He should say 
I will not drive my syle into the south ; 
The fisher folk may do without my syle. 
And do without the shoals of fish it draws 
To follow and feed on it." 

This said, we made 
Our peace with him by means of two small coins, 
And down we ran and lay upon the reef, 
And saw the swimming infants, emerald gi'een, 
In separate shoals, the scarcely turning ebb 
Bringing them in ; while sleek, and not intent 
On chase, but taking that which came to hand, 
The full-fed mackerel and the gurnet swam 
Between ; and settling on the polished sea, 
A thousand snow-white gulls sat lovingly 
In social rings, and twittered while they fed. 
The village dogs and ours, elate and brave. 
Lay looking over, barking at the fish ; 
Fast, fast the silver creatures took the bait, 
And when they heaved and floundered on the rock, 
In beauteous misery, a sudden pat 



[^O BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

Some shaggy pup would deal, then back away, 

At distance eye them with sagacious doubt. 

And shrink half frighted from the slippery things. 

And so we lay from ebb-tide, till the flow 
Rose high enough to drive us from the reef; 
Tlie fisher lads went home across the sand ; 
We climbed the cliff, and sat an hour or more, 
Talking and looking down. It was not talk 
Of much significance, except for this — 
That we had more in common than of old, 
For botii were tired, I with overwork. 
He with inaction ; I was glad at heart 
To rest, and he was glad to have an ear 
That he could grumble to, and half in jest 
Rail at entails, deplore the fate of heirs, 
And the misfortune of a good estate — 
Misfortune that was sure to pull him down, » 
Make him a dreamy, selfish, useless man : 
Indeed he felt himself deteriorate 
Already. Thereupon he sent down showers 
Of clattering stones, to emphasize his words, 
And leap the cliffs and tumble noisily 
Into the seething wave. And as for me, 
1 railed at him and at ingratitude. 
While rifling of the basket he had slung 
Across his shoulders ; then with right good will 
We fell to work, and feasted like the gods, 
Like laborers, or like eager workhouse folk 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

At Yuletide dinner ; or, to say the whole 

At once, like tired, liungry, healtliy youth, 

Until the meal being o'er, the tilted flask 

Drained of its latest drop, the meat and bread 

And ruddy cherries eaten, and the dogs 

Mumblmg the bones, this elder brother of mine — 

This man, that never felt an ache or pain 

In his broad, well-knit frame, and never knew 

The trouble of an unforgiven grudge, 

The sting of a regretted meanness, nor 

The desperate struggle of the unendowed 

For place and for possession — he began 

To sing a rhyme tliat he himself had wrought ; 

Sending it out with cogitative pause, 

As if the scene where he had shaped it first 

Had rolled it back on him, and meeting it 

Thus unaware, he was of doubtful mind 

Whether his dignity it well beseemed 

To suig of pretty maiden : 

Goldilocks sat on the grass, 

Tying up of posies rare ; 
Hardly could a sunbeam pass 

Through the cloud that was her hair. 
Purple orchis lasteth long, 

Primrose flowers are pale and clear; 
the maiden sang a song 

It would do you good to hear ! 

Sad before her leaned the boy, 
** Goldilocks that I love well. 



jqi 



J 92 BROTHERS, AND A SERMOJS. 

Happy creature, fair and coy, 
Think o' me, sweet Amabel." 

Goldilocks she shook apart. 
Looked with doubtful, doubtful eyes ; 

Like a blossom in her heart, 
Opened out her first surprise. 

As a gloriole sign o' grace, 

Goldilocks, ah fall and flow. 
On the blooming, childlike face, 

Dimple, dimple, come and go. 
Give her time ; on grass and sky 

Let her gaze if she be fain : 
As they looked ere he drew nigh, 

They wiU never look again. 

Ah ! the playtime she has known, 

Wliile her goldilocks grew long, 
Is it like a nestling flown, 

Childhood over like a song ? 
Yes, the boy may clear his brow, 

Though she thinks to say him nay. 
When she sighs, " I cannot now — 

Come again some other day." 



" Hold ! there," he cried, half angry mth himself ; 

" That ending goes amiss : " then turned again 

To the old argument that we had held — 

" Now look you ! " said my brother, " You may talk 

Till, weary of the talk, I answer 'Ay, 

There's reason in your words ; ' and you may talk 

Till I go on to say, ' This should be so ; ' 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 193 

And yoii may talk till I shall further own 

' It is so ; yes, I am a lucky dog ! ' 

Yet not the less shall I next morning wake. 

And witli a natural and fervent sigh, 

Such as you never heaved, I shall exclaim 

' What an unlucky d(;g I am ! ' " And here 

He broke into a laugh. " But as for you — 

You ! on all hands you have the best of me ; 

Men have not robbed you of your birthright — work. 

Nor ra\ aojed in old days a peaceful field. 

Nor wedded heiresses against their will, 

Noi- sinned, nor slaved, nor stooped, nor overreached. 

That you might drone a useless life away 

*]Mid half a score of bleak and barren farms 

And half a dozen bogs." 

'* O rare ! " I cried ; 
" His wrongs go nigh to make him eloquent : 
Now we behold how far bad actions reach ! 
Because five hundred years ago a Knight 
Drove geese and beeves out from a Franklin's yard ; 
Because three hundred years ago a squire — 
Against her will, and for her fair estate — 
JNIarried a very ugly red-haired maid. 
The blest inheritor of all their pelf, 
While in the full enjoyment of the same, 
Sighs on his own confession every day. 
He cracks no egg without a moral sigh, 
Noi eats of beef, but thinking on that wrong ; 
Then, yet the more to be revenged on them, • 

13 



194 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

And shame their ancient pnde, it' they should know. 
Works hard as any horee for liis degree, 
And takes to writing verses." 

" Ay," he said. 
Half laughing at himself. "Yet you and 1, 
liut for those tresses which enrich us yet 
With somewhat of the hue that partial fame 
( 'alls auburn when it shines on heads of heirs, 
Uut when it flames round brows of younger sons, 
Just red — mere red ; why, but for this, I say. 
And but for selfish getting of the land, 
And beggarly entailing it, we two, 
To-day well fed, well grown, well dressed, well read, 
We might have been two horny-handed boors — 
Lean, clumsy, ignorant, and ragged boors — 
Planning for moonlight nights a poaching scheme, 
Or soiling our dull souls and consciences 
With plans for pilfering a cottage roost. 

" What, chonis ! are you dumb ? you should have cried, 

' So good comes out of evil ; ' " and with that, 

As if all pauses it was natural 

To seize for songs, his voice broke out again : 

Coo, dove, to thy married mate — 

She has two warm eggs in her nest : 
Tell her the hours are few to wait 
Ere life shall dawn on their rest ; 
And thy young shall peck at the shells, elate 
• With a dream of her brooding breast. 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 195 

Coo, dove, for she counts the hours. 

Her fair wings ache for flight : 
By day the apple has grown in the flowers, 

And the moon has grown by niglit. 
And the white drift settled from hawthorn bowers, 

Yet they will not seek the light. 

Coo, dove ; but what of the sky? 

And what if the storm-wind swell, 
And the reeling branch come down from on high 

To the grass where daisies dwell, 
And the brood beloved should with them lie 

Or ever they break the shell 1 

Coo, dove ; and yet black clouds lower. 

Like fate, on the far-off" sea : 
Thunder and Avind they bear to thy bower. 

As on wings of destiny. 
All, what if they break in an evil hour. 

As tliey broke over mine and me? 



What next ? — we started like to girls, for lo ! 
The creaking voice, more harsh than rusty crane, 
Of one who stooped behind us, cried aloud 
" Good lack ! how sweet the gentleman does sing — 
So loud and sweet, 'tis like to split his throat. 
Why, INIike's a child to him, a two years child — 
A Chrisom child." 

" Who's Mike ? " my brother growled 
A little roughly. Quoth the fisherman — 
" Mike, Sir ? he's just a fisher lad, no more ; 
But he can sing, when he takes on to sing, ^ 



iqb BliOTIIERS, AND A SERMON. 

So loud there's not a sparrow in the spire 
But needs must bear. Sir, if I might make bold, 
I'd aslv what sonij that was you snn^. My mate. 
As wo were shoving off the mackerel boats, 
Said he, " Fll wager that's tlie sort o' song 
I'liey kept their hearts up with in the Crimea.' " 

" There, fisherman," quoth I, " he showed his wit, 
Your mate ; he marked the sound of savage war — 
Gunpowder, groans, hot-shot, and bursting shells, 
And ' murderous messages,' delivered by 
Spent balls that break the heads of dreaming men.** 

" Ay, ay, Sir ! " quoth the fisherman. " Have done ! " 

My brother. And I — '* The gift belongs to few 

Of sending farther than the words can reach 

Their spirit and expression ; " still — " Have done ! " 

He cried ; and then " I rolled the rubbish out 

More loudly than the meanmg warranted. 

To air ray lungs — I thought not on the words.'* 

Then said tlie fisherman, who missed the point, 

" So Mike rolls out the psalm ; you'll hear him, Sir, 

Please God you live till Sunday." 

" Even so : 
And you, too, fisherman ; for here, they say. 
You are all church-goers." 

" Surely, Sir," quoth he, 
To<^ off his hat, and stroked his old white head 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

And wrinkled face ; then sitting by us said, 
As one that utters with a quiet mind 
Unchallenged truth — " 'Tis lucky for the boats." 

The boats ! 'tis lucky for the boats ! Our eyes 
Were drawn to him as either fain would say, 
What ! do they send the psalm up in the spire, 
And pray because 'tis lucky for the boats ? 

But he, the brown old man, the wrinkled man, 

That all his life had been a church-goer, 

Familiar with celestial cadences, 

Informed of all he could receive, and sure 

Of all he understood — he sat content. 

And we kept silence. In his reverend face 

There was a simpleness we could not sound ; 

Much truth had passed him overhead ; some error 

He had trod under foot ; — God comtbrt him ! 

He could not learn of us, for we were young 

And he was old, and so we gave it up ; 

And the sun went into the west, and down 

Upon the water stooped an orange cloud. 

And the pale milky reaches flushed, as glad 

To wear its colors ; and the sultry air 

Went out to sea, and puffed the sails of ships 

With thymy wafts, tlie breath of trodden gi-asa : 

It took moreover music, for across 

The heather belt and over pasture land 

Came the sweet monotone of one slow bell, • 



197 



1^8 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON, 

And parted time into divisions rare, 
Whereof each morsel brought its own delight. 

" They ring for service," quoth the fisherman ; 
" Our parson preaches in the church to-niglit." 

" And do the people go ? " my brother asked. 

** Ay, Sir ; they count it mean to stay away, 
He takes it so to heart. He's a rare man, 
Our parson ; half a head above us all " 

" That's a great gift, and notable," said T. 

" Ay, Sir ; and when he was a younger man 

He went out in the lifeboat very oft. 

Before the ' Grace of Sunderland ' was wrecked* 

He's never been his own man since that hour : 

For there were thirty men aboard of her, 

A nigh as close as you are now to me. 

And ne'er a one was saved. 

They're lying now, 
With two small children, in a row : the church 
And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few 
Have any names. 

She bumped upon the reef; 
Our parson, my young son, and several more 
Were lashed together with a two-inch rope, 
And crept along to her : their mates ashore 



BROTHERS, AND A SERAWJV. jgq 

Ready to haul them in. The gale was high. 
The sea was all a boiling seething froth. 
And God Almighty's guns were going off, ,„- — *■ 
And the land trembled. 



" AYhen she took the ground. 
She went to pieces like a lock of hay 
Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that. 
The captain reeled on deck with two small things, 
One in each arm — his little lad and lass. 
Their hair was long, and blew before his face, 
Or else we thought he had been saved ; he fell, 
But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls ! 
The breakers licked them off ; and some were crushed, 
Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead. 
The dear breath beaten out of them : not one 
Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch 
The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back 
With eyes wide open. But tiie captain lay 
And clung — the only man alive. They prayed — 
*For God's sake, captain, throw the children here !' 
* Throw them ! ' our parson cried ; and then she struck 
And he threw one, a pretty two years child ; 
But the gale dashed him on the slippery verge. 
And down he went. They say they heard him cry, 

" Then he rose up and took the other one. 

And all oiu- men reached out their hungiy arms, 

And cried out, ' Throw her, throw her ! ' and he did : 



200 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

He threw her right against the parson's breast, 
And all at once a sea broke over them, 
And they that saw it from the shore have said 
It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it, 
Just as a woman might the lump of salt 
That 'twixt her hands into the kneading pan 
She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread. 

" We hauled our men in : two of them were dead - 
The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down ; 
Our parson's arms were empty, for the wave 
Had torn away the pretty, pretty .lamb ; 
We often see him stand beside her grave : 
But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his. 

" I ask your pardon, Sirs, I prate and prate, 
And never have 1 said what brought me here. 
Sirs, if you want a boat to-morrow morn, 
I'm bold to say there's ne'er a boat like mine." 

" Ay, that was what we wanted," we replied ; 

" A boat, his boat ; " and off he went, well pleased. 

We, too, rose up (the crimson in the sky 
Flushing our faces), and went sauntering on. 
And thought to reach our lodging, by the cliff. 
And up and down among the heather beds, 
And up and down between the sheaves we sped, 
Doublin<i!; and \vindini>- ; for a lono; ravine 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 20 1 

Ran up into the land and cut us off, 
Pushing out slippery ledges for the birds, 
And rent with many a crevice, where the wind 
Had laid up drifts of empty eggshells, swept 
From the bare berths of gulls and guillemots. 

So as it chanced we lighted on a path 
That led into a nutwood ; and our talk 
Was louder than beseemed, if we had known, 
With argument and laughter ; for the path, 
As we sped onward, took a sudden turn 
Abrupt, and we came out on churchyard grass, 
And close vipon a porch, and face to face 
With those within, and with the thirty graves. 
We heard the voice of one who preached within, 
And stopped. " Come on," my brother whispered me ; 
" It were more decent that we enter now ; 
Come on ! we'll hear this rare old demigod : 
I like strong men and large ; I like gray heads. 
And grand gruff voices, hoarse though this may be 
With shouting in the storm." 

It was not hoarse, 
The voice that preached to those few fishermen 
And women, nursing mothers with the babes 
Hushed on their breasts ; and yet it held them not : 
Their drowsy eyes were drawn to look at us. 
Till, having leaned our rods against the wall. 
And left the dogs at watch, we entered, sat. 
And were apprised that, though he saw us not. 



202 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

The parson knew that he had lost the eyes 

And ears of those before him, for he made 

A pause — a long dead pause, and dropped his arms. 

And stood awaiting, till I felt the red 

Mount to my brow. 

And a soft fluttering stir 
Passed over all, and every mother hushed 
The babe beneath her shawl, and he turned round 
And met our eyes, unused to diffidence. 
But diffident of his ; then with a sigh 
Fronted the folk, lifted his grand gray head, 
And said, as one that pondered now the words 
He had been preaching on with new surprise, 
And found fresh marvel in their sound, " Behold ! 
Behold ! " saith He, " I stand at the door and knock.*' 

Then said the parson : " What ! and shall He wait, 

And must He wait, not only till we say, 

' Good Lord, the house is clean, the hearth is swept. 

The children sleep, the mackerel-boats are in, 

And all the nets are mended ; therefore I 

Will slowly to the door and open it : ' 

But must He also wait where still, behold ! 

He stands and knocks, while we do say, ' Good Lord. 

The gentlefolk are come to worship here, 

And I will up and open to Thee soon ; 

But first I pray a little longer wait, 

For I am taken up with them ; my eyes 

Musi needs regard the fashion of their clothes, 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 2 03 

And count the gains I think to make by them ; 
Forsooth, they are of much account, good Lord ! 
Therefore have patience with me — wait, dear Lord ! 
Or come again ? ' 

What ! must He wait for Tnis — 
For this ? Ay, He doth wait for this, and still, 
Waiting for this, He, patient, raileth not ; 
Waiting for this, e'en this He saith, ' Behold ! 
I stand at the door and knock.' 

O patient hand ! 
Knocking and waiting — knocking in the night 
Wlien work is done ! I charge you, by the sea 
Whereby you fill your children's mouths, and by 
The might of Him that made it — fishermen ! 
I charge you, motliers I by the mother's milk 
He drew, and by His Father, God over all. 
Blessed forever, that ye answer Him ! 
Open the door with shame, if ye have sinned : 
If ye be sorry, open it with sighs. 
Albeit the place be bare for poverty, 
And comfortless for lack of plenishing, 
Be not abashed for that, but open it, 
And take Him in that comes to sup with tliee ; 
' Behold ! ' He saith, ' I stand at the door and knock.' 

"Now, hear me : there be troubles in this world 
That no man can escape, and there is one 
That lieth hard and heavy on my soul, 
Concerning that which is to come: — 



204 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON, 

I say 
As a man that knows what earthly trouble means, 
I will not bear this one — I cannot bear 
This ONE — I cannot bear the weight of you — 
You — every one of you, body and soul ; 
You, with the care you suffer, and the loss 
- That you sustain ; you, with the growing up 
To peril, maybe with the growing old 
To want, unless before I stand with you 
At the great white throne, I may be free of all, 
And utter to the full what shall discharge 
Mine obligation : nay, I will not wait 
A day, for every time the black clouds rise, 
And the gale freshens, still T search my soul 
To find if there be aught that can persuade 
To good, or aught forsooth that can beguile 
From evil, that I (miserable man ! 
If that be so) have left unsaid, undone. 

" So that when any risen from sunken wrecks, 

Or rolled in by the billows to the edge 

Of the everlasting strand, what time the sea 

Gives up her dead, shall meet me, they may say 

Never, ' Old man, you told us not of this ; 

You left us fisher lads that had to toil 

Ever in danger of the secret stab 

Of rooks, far deadlier than the dagger ; winds 

Of breath more murderous than the cannon's ; waves 

Mighty to rock us to our death ; and gulfs, 



^ 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 205 

Ready benejith to suck and swallow us in : 
This crime be on your head ; and as for us — 
What shall we do ? ' but rather — nay, not so, 
1 will not think it ; I will leave the dead, 
Appealing but to life : I am afraid 
Of you, but not so much if you have sinned 
As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. 
The day was, I have been afraid of pi-ide — 
Hard man's hard pride ; but now I am afraid 
Of man's humility. I counsel you, 
By the great God's great humbleness, and by 
His pity, be not humble over-much. '— — 

See ! I will show at whose unopened doors 
He stands and knocks, that you may never say, 
' I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost ; 
He knocks at other doors, but not at mine.' 

" See here ! it is the night ! it is the night ! 
And snow lies thickly, white untrodden snow, 
And the wan moon upon a casement shines — 
A casement crusted o'er with frosty leaves. 
That make her ray less bright along the floor. 
A woman sits, with hands upon her knees. 
Poor tii-ed soul ! and she has nought to do, 
For there is neither fire nor candle-light : 
The driftwood ash lies cold upon her hearth ; 
The rushlight flickered down an hour ago ; 
Her children wail a little in their sleep 
For cold and himger, and, as if that sound . 



2ob BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

Was not enough, another conies to her, 
Over God's undefiled snow — a song — 
Nay, never hang your heads — I say, a song. 

" And doth she curse the alehouse, and the sots 
That drink the night out and their earnings there, 
And drink their manly strength and courage down, 
And drink away the little children's bread, 
And starve her, starving by the self-same act 
Her tender suckling, that with piteous eye? 
. Looks in her face, till .scarcely she has heart 
To work, and earn the scanty bit and drop 
That feed the otheis ? 

Does she curse the song ? 
I think not, fishermen ; I have not heard 
Such women curse. God's curse is curse enough. 
To-morrow she will say a bitter thing, 
Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show — 
A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse — 
* My master is not worse than many men : * 
But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and still ; 
No food, no comfort, cold and poverty 
Bearing her down. 

My heart is sore for her ; 
How long, how long ? When troubles come of God, 
I When men are frozen out of work, when wives 
Are sick, when working fathers fail and die, 
When boats go down at sea — then nought behooves 

\Like patience ; but for troubles wrought of men 
Patience is hard — I tell you it is hiu"d. 



r 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 207 

•'* O thou poor soul ! it is the night — the night ; 
Against thy door drifts up the silent snow, 
Blocking thy threshold : ' Fall/ thou sayest, ' fall, fall, 
Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot. 
Am not I fallen ? wake up and pipe, wind, 
Dull wind, and beat and bluster at my door : 
Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song. 
For there is other music made to-night 
That I would fain not hear. Wake, thou still sea, 
Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white waterfall. 
O, I could long like thy cold icicles 
Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift 
And not complain, so I might melt at last 
In the warm summer sun, as thou Avilt do ! 

" ' But woe IS me ! I think there is no sun ; 
My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark : 
None care for me. The children cry for bread, 
And I have none, and nought can comfort me ; 
Even if the heavens were free to such as I, 
It were not much, for death is long to Avait, 
And heaven is far to go ! ' 

" And speak'st thou thus, 
Despairing of the sun that sets to thee, 
And of the earthly love that wanes to thee, 
And of the heaven that lieth far from thee ? 
Peace, peace, fond fool ! One draweth near thy door 
Whose footsteps leave no print across the snow ; 
Thy Sim has risen with comfort in his face, 



2o8 BROTHERS, AND A SERMOA. 

The smile of heaven, to warm tliy frozen heart, 
And bless with saintly hand. What ! is it long 
To wait, and far to go ? Thou shalt not go ; 
Behold, across the snow to thee He comes, 
Thy heaven descends, and is it long to wait ? 
Thou shalt not wait: 'This night, this night,' He saith 
' I stand at the door and knock/ 

" It is enough — can such an one be here — 
Yea, here ? God forgive you, fishermen ! 
One ! is there only one ? But do thou know, 

woman pale for want, if thou art here, 

Tliat on thy lot much thought is spent in heaven ; 
And, coveting the heart a hard man broke. 
One standeth patient, watching in the night. 
And waiting in the daytime. 

What shall be 
If thou wilt answer ? He will smile on thee ; 
One smile of His shall be enough to heal 
The wound of man's neglect ; and He will sigh, 
Pitying the trouble which that sigh shall cure ; 
And He will speak — speak in the desolate night, 
Li the dark night : ' For me a thorny crown 
Men wove, and nails were driven m my hands 
And feet : there was an earthquake, and I died ; 

1 died, and am alive for evermore. 

" ' I died for thee ; for thee I am alive, 
And my humanity doth mourn for thee, 
For thou art mine ; and all thy little ones, 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 209 

They, too, are mine, are mine. Behold, the house 
Is dark, but there is brightness where the sons 
Of God are singing, and, behold, the heart 
Is troubled : yet the nations walk in white ; 
They have forgotten how to weep ; and thou 
Shalt also come, and I will foster thee 
And satisfy thy soul ; and thou shalt wann 
Thy trembling life beneath the smile of God. 
A little while — it is a little while — 
A little while, and I will comfort thee ; 
I go away, but I will come again.' 

" But hear me yet. There was a poor old man 
Who sat and listened to the raging sea, 
And heard it thunder, luno-ino; at the cliffs 
As like to tear them down. He lay at night ; 
And ' Lord have mercy on the lads,' said he, 
* That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine ! 
For when the gale gets up, and when the wind 
Flings at the window, when it beats the roof. 
And lulls and stops and rouses up again, 
And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave, 
And scatters it like feathers up the field, 
Why, then I tliink of my two lads: my lads 
That would have worked and never let me want, 
Ancl never let me take tjie parish pay. 
No, none of mine ; my lads were drowned at sea — 
My two — before the most of these were born. 
I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife 
14 



210 BROTHERS, AND A SERMOJSl. 

Walked up and down, and still walked up and down. 

And I walked after, and one could not hear 

A word the other said, for wind and sea 

That raged and beat and thundered in the night — 

The awfuUest, the longest, lightest night 

That ever parents had to spend — a moon 

That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. 

Ah me ! and other men have lost their lads, 

And other women wiped their poor dead mouths, 

And got them home and dried them in the house, 

And seen the driftwood lie along the coast. 

That was a tidy boat but one day back. 

And seen next tide the neighbors gather it 

To lay it on their fires. 

Ay, I was strong 
And able-bodied — loved my work ; — but now 
I am a useless hull : 'tis time I sunk ; 
1 am in all men's way ; I trouble them ; 
I am a trouble to myself: but yet 
I feel for mariners of stormy nights, 
. And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay ! 
If I had learning I would pray the Lord 
To bring them in : but I'm no scholar, no ; 
Book-learning is a world too hard for me : 
But I make bold to say, ' O Lord, good Lord, 
I am a I roken-down poor man, a fool 
To speak to Thee : but in the Book 'tis writ, 
As 1 hear say from others that can read, 
How, when Thou (^amest, Tliou didst love the sea. 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 211 

And live with fisherfblk, whereby 'tis sure 
Thou knowest all the peril they go through. 
And all their trouble. 

As for me, good Lord, 
I have no boat ; I am too old, too old — 
My lads are drowned ; I buried my poor wife ; 
My little lasses died so long ago 
That mostly I forget what they were like. 
Thou knowest, Lord; they were such little ones 
I know they went to Thee, but I forget 
Their faces, though I missed them sore. 

O Lord, 
I was a strong man ; I have drawn good food 
And made good money out of Thy great sea : 
But yet I cried for them at nights ; and now, 
Although I be so old, I miss my lads. 
And there be many folk this stormy night 
Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful Lord, 
Comfort them ; save their honest boys, their pride, 
And let them hear next ebb the blessedest, 
r>est sound — the boat-keels grating on tlie sand. 

' ' 1 cannot pray with finer words: I knoAv 
Nothing ; I have no learning, camiot learn — 
'J'oo old, too old. They say I want for nought, 
1 have the parish pay ; but 1 am dull 
Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through. 
God save me, I have been a sinful man — 
And save the lives of them that still can woi-k, 



212 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

For they are good to me ; ay, good to me. 
But, Lord, I am a trouble ! and I sit, 
And I am lonesome, and the nights are few 
That any think to come and draw a chair, 
And sit in my poor place and talk a while. 
Why should they come, forsooth ? Only the wind 
/ Knocks at my door, O long and loud it knocks. 
The only thing God made that has a mind 
To enter in.' 

" Yea, thus the old man spake : 
These were the last words of his aged mouth — 
But One did knock. One came to sup with him, 
That humble, weak, old man ; knocked at his door 
In the rough pauses of the laboring mnd. 
I tell you that One knocked while it was dark. 
Save where their foaming passion had made white 
Those livid seething billows. What He said 
In that poor place where He did talk a while, 
I cannot tell : but this I am assured, 
That when the neighbors came the morrow mom. 
What time the wind had l)ated, and the sun 
Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile 
] He passed away in, and they said, ' He looks 
I As he had woke and seen the face of Christ, 
f And with that rapturous smile held out his arms 
To come to Ilim ! ' 

" Can such an one be here. 
So old, so weak, so i^jnorant, so frail? 



BRDTIIERSy AND A SERMON. 213 

The Lord be good to thee, thou poor old maii ; 
It would be hard with thee if heaven were shut 
To such as have not learning I Nay, nay, nay, 
He condescends to them of low estate ; 
To such as are despised He cometh down, 
Stands at the door and knocks. 

" Yet bear with me. 
I have a message ; I have more to say. 
Shall sorrow win His pity, and not sin — 
That burden ten times heavier to be borne? 
What think you ? Shall tlie virtuous have His care 
Alone ? O virtuous women, think not scorn, 
For you may lift your faces everywhere ; 
And now that it grows dusk, and I can see 
None though they front me straight, I fain would tell 
A certain tiling to you. I say to you ; 
And if it doth concern you, as methinks 
It doth, then surely it concerneth all. 
I say that there was once — I say not here — 
I say that there was once a castaway. 
And she was weeping, weeping bitterly ; 
Kiieeling, and crying with a heart-sick cry 
That choked itself in sobs — ' O my good name ! 
Oh my good name 1 ' And none did hear her cry I 
Nay ; and it lightened, and the storm-bolts fell, 
And the rain splashed upon the roof, and still 
She, storm-tost as the storming elements — 
She ^ried with an exceeding bitter cry, 



/ 



214 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

' O my good name ! ' And then the thmider-cloud 
Stooped low and burst in darkness overhead, 
And rolled, and rocked her on her knees, and shook 
The frail foundations of her dwelling-place. 
But she — if any neighbor had come in 
(None did) : if any neighbor had come in, 
They might have seen her crying on her knees, 
And sobbing ' Lost, lost, lost!' beating her breast — 
Her breast forever pricked with cruel thorns. 
The wounds whereof could neither balm assuage 
Nor any patience heal — beating her brow, 
Which ached, it had been bent so long to hide 
From level eyes, whose meaning was contempt. 

" O ye good women, it is hard to leave 
The paths of virtue, and return again. 
What if this sinner wept, and none of you 
Comforted her? And what if she did strive 
To mend, and none of you believed her strife. 
Nor looked upon her? Mark, I do not say. 
Though it was hard, you therefore were to blame 
That she had aught against you, though your feet 
Never drew near her door. But I beseech 
Your patience. Once in old Jerusalem 
A woman kneeled at consecrated feet. 
Kissed them, and washed them with her tears. 

What then? 
1 think that yet our Lord is pitiful : 
I think I see the castaway e'en now ! 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 215 

Ami she is not alone : the heavy rain 
Splashes witliout, and sullen thunder rolls, 
But she is lying at the sacred feet 
Of One transfigured. 

"And her tears flow down, 
Dcwn to her lips, — her lips that kiss the print 
Of nails ; and love is like to break her heart ! 
Love and repentance — for it still doth work 
Sore in her soul to think, to think that she, 
Even she, did pierce the sacred, sacred feet, 
And bruise the thorn-crowned head. 

"0 Lord, our Lord, 
How great is Thy compassion. Come, good Lord, 
For we will open. Come this night, good Lord ; 
Stand at the door and knock. 

"And is this all? — 
Trouble, old age and simpleness, and sin — 
This all? It might be all some other night ; 
But this night, if a voice said ' Give account 
Whom hast thou with thee ? ' then must I reply, 
* Young manhood have I, beautiful youth and strengt^. 
Rich with all treasure drawn up from the crypt \ 

Where lies the learning of the ancient world — . 

Brave with all thoughts that poets fling upon 
The strand of life, as driftweed after storms : 
Doubtless familiar with Thy mountain heads, 
And the dread purity of Alpine snows, 
Doubtless familiar with Thy works concealed 
For ages from mankind -^outlying worlds, 



2l6 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

And many mooned spheres — and Thy great store 
Of stars, more thick than mealy dust which here 
Powders the pale leaves of Auriculas. 

This do I know, but, Lord, I know not more. 

Not more concerning them — concerning Thee, 

I know Thy bounty ; where Thou givest much 

Standing without, if any call Thee in 

Thou givest more.' Speak, then, rich and strong: 

Open, O happy young, ere yet the hand 

Of Him that knocks, wearied at last, forbear ; 

The patient foot its thankless quest refrain, 

The wounded heart for evermore withdraw." 

I have heard many speak, but this one man — 

So anxious not to go to heaven alone — 

This one man I remember, and his look. 

Till twilight overshadowed him. He ceased, 

And out in darkness with the fisherfolk 

"We passed and stumbled over mounds of moss. 

And heard, but did not see, the passing beck. 

Ah, graceless heart, would that it could regain 

From the dim storehouse of sensations past 

The impress full of tender awe, that night. 

Which fell on me ! It was as if the Ciirist 

Had been di-awn down from heaven to track us home, 

And any of the footsteps following us 

Might have been His. 




A WEDDING SONG. 



OME up the broad river, the Thames, my 
'•-'^ Dane, 

My Dane with tlie beautiful eyes ! 
Thousands and thousands await thee fnll fain, 

And talk of the wind and the skies. 
Fear not from folk and from country to part, 

O, I swear it is wisely done : 
For (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart, 
As be Cometh my father's son. 



Great London was shouting as I went down. 
" She is worthy," I said, " of this ; 

What shall I give who have promised a crown ? 
O, first I will give her a kiss." 

So I kissed her and brought her, my Dane, my Dane- 
Through the waving wonderful crowd : 

Thousands and thousands, they shouted amain, 
Like mighty t^himders and loud. 

And they said, " He is yomig, the lad we love, 

The heir of the Isles is young : 
How we deem of his mother, and one gone above, 

Can neither be said nor sung. 



2l8 



A WEDDING SONG. 



He brings us a pledge — lie will do his part 
. With the best of his race and name ; " — 
And I will, for I look to live, sweetheart, 
As may suit with my mother's fame. 





THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

LOVE this gray old church, the low, long nave. 

The ivied chancel and the slender spire ; 
No less its shadow on each heaving grave, 
With growing osier bound, or living brier; 
I love those yew-tree trimks, where stand arrayed 
So many deep-cut names of youth and maid. 

A simple custom this — I love it well — 
A carved betrothal and a pledge of truth ; 

How many an eve, their linked names to spell, 
Beneath the yew-trees sat our village youth ! 

When work was over, and the new-cut hay 

Sent "wafts of balm from meadows where it lay. 

Ah ! many an eve, while I was yet a boy, 
Some village hind has beckoned me aside, 

And sought mine aid. with shy and awkward joy. 
To carve the letters of his rustic bride. 

And make them clear to read as graven stone. 

Deep in the yew-tree's trunk beside his own. 



220 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

For none could carve like me, and here they stand, 
Fathers and mothers of this present race ; 

And underscored by some less practised hand, 
That fain the story of its line would trace, 

With children's names, and number, and the day 

^Yhen any called to God have passed away. 

I look upon them, and I turn aside, 

As oft when carving them 1 did erewhile ; 

And there I see those wooden bridges wide 
That cross the marshy hollow ; there the stile 

In reeds embedded, and the swelling down, 

And the white road towards the distant town. 

But those old bridges claim another look. 

Our brattling river tumbles through the one ; 
The second spans a shallow, weedy brook ; 

Beneath the others, and beneath the sun. 
Lie two long stilly pools, and on their breasts 
Picture their wooden piles, encased in swallows' nests. 

And round about them grows a fringe of reeds, , 
And then a floating crown of lily- flowers. 

And yet within small silver-budded weeds ; 
But each clear centre evermore embowers 

A deeper sky, where, stooping, you may see 

The little minnows darting restlessly. 

My heart is bitter, lilies, at your sweet ; 
Why did the dewdrop fringe yoUr chalices ? 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 221 

Why in your beauty are you thus complete, 
You silver ships — you floating palaces ? 
! if need be, you must allure man's eye, 
Yet wherefore blossom here ? O why ? why ? 

O ! O ! the world is wide, you lily flowers, 
It hath warm forests, cleft by stilly pools. 

Where every night bathe crowds of stars ; and bowers 
Of spicery hang over. Sweet air cools 

And shakes the lilies among those stars that lie : 

Why are not ye content to reign there ? Why ? 

That chain of bridges, it were hard to tell 

How it is linked with all my early joy. 
There was a little foot that I loved well. 

It danced across them when I was a boy ; 
There was a careless voice that used to sing ; 
There was a child, a sweet and happy thing. 

Oft through that matted wood of oak and bii'ch 
She came from yonder house upon the hill ; 

She crossed the wooden brido;es to the church, 
And watched, with village girls, my boasted skill : 

But loved to w^atch the floating lilies best. 

Or lingei-, peering in a swallow's nest ; 

Linger and linger, with her wistful eyes 
Drawn to the lily-buds that lay so white 

And soft on crimson water ; for the skies 

Would crimson, and the little cloudlets bright 



222 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Would all be flung among the flowers sheer down, 
To flush the spaces of their clustering crown. 

Till the gi-een rushes — O, so glossy green — 
The rushes, they would whisper, rustle, shake ; 

And forth on floathig gauze, no jewelled queen 
So rich, the green-eyed dragon-flies would break, 

And hover on the flowers — aerial things, 

With little rainbows flickering on their wings. 

Ah ! my heart dear ! the polished pools lie still, 
Like lanes of water reddened by the west. 

Till, swooping down from yon o'erhanging hill. 
The bold marsh harrier wets her tawny breast ; 

We scared her oft in childhood from her prey, 

And the old eager thoughts rise fresh as yesterday. 

To yonder copse by moonlight 1 did go. 

In luxury of mischief, half afraid, 
To steal the great owl's brood, her downy snow, 

Her screaming imps to seize, the while she preyed 
With yellow, cruel eyes, whose radiant glare, 
Fell with their mother rage, I might not dare. 

Panting I lay till her great fanning wings 

Troubled the dreams of rock-doves, slumbering nig) 

And she and her fierce mate, like evil things, 

Skimmed the dusk fields ; then rising, with a cry 

Of iear, joy, triumph, darted on my prey. 
And tore it from the nest and fled away. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

But afterward, belated in the wood, 

I saw her moping on the rifled tree, 
And my heart smote me for her, while 1 stood 

Awakened from my careless reverie ; 
So white she looked, with moonligiit round her shed. 
So mothc^rlike she drooped and hung Iier lieatl. 

O that mine eyes would cheat me ! I behold 
The gotlwits running by the water edge, 

The mo!?sy bridges mirrored as of old ; 

The little curlews creeping from the sedge, 

But not the little foot so gayly light 

O that mine eyes would clieat mo, that 1 might ! — 

Would cheat me ! I behold the gable ends — 
Those purple pigeons clustering on the cote ; 

The lane with maples overhung, that bends 
Toward her dwelling ; the dry grassy moat. 

Thick muUions, diamond-latticed, mossed and gray, 

And walls banked up with laurel and with bay. 

And up behind them yellow fields of corn. 
And still ascending countless flrry spires, 

l)rv slopes of hills uncultured, bare, forlora, 

And gi-een in rocky clefts with whins and briers ; 

Then ri<;h cloud masses dyed the violet's hue. 

With orange sunbeams dropping swiftly through. 

Ay, I behold all this full easily ; 

My soul is jealous of my happier eyes. 



223 



224 ^^^ FOUR BRIDGET. 

A^nd m«nhood envies youth. Ah, strange to see, 

By looking merely, orange -flooded skies ; 
Nay, any dew-drop that may near me shine : 
But never more the face of Eglantine ! 

She was my one companion, being herself 
The jewel and adornment of my days, 

My life*« completeness. O, a smiling elf, 
That I do but disparage with my praise — 

My playmate ; and I loved her dearly and long, 

And she loved me, as the tender love the strong. 

Ay, but she grew, till on a time there came 
A sudden restless yeaniing to my heart ; 

And as we went a-nesting, all for shame 

And shyness, I did hold my peace, and start ; 

Content departed, comfort shut me out, 

And there was nothing left to talk about. 

She had but sixteen years, and as for me, 

Four added made my life. This pretty bird, 

This fairy bird that I had cherished — she. 
Content, had sung, while I, contented, heard. 

The song had ceased ; the bird, with nature's art, 

Had brought a thorn and set it in my lieart. 

The restless birtli of love my soul opprost, 
I longed and wrestled for a tranquil day. 

And warred with that disquiet in my bi-east 
As one who knows there is a better wav ; 



22 5 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

But, turned against myself, I still in vain 
L(voked ibr the ancient calm to come again 

My tired soul could to itself confess 

That she deserved a ^viser love than mine ; 

To love more truly were to love her less, 
And for this truth I still awoke to pine ; 

1 had a dim belief that it would be 

A better tiling for her, a blessed thing for me. 



Good hast Thou made them — comforters right sweet ; 

Good hast Thou made the world, to mankind lent ; 
Good are Thy dropping clouds that feed the wheat ; 

Good are Thy stars above the firmament. 
Take to Thee, take. Thy worship. Thy renown ; 
The good which Thou hast made doth wear Thy crown. 

For, O my God, Thy creatures are so frail, 

Thy bountiful creation is so fair. 
That, drawn before us like the temple veil. 

It hides the Holy Place from thought and care, 
Givmg man's eyes instead its sweeping fold, 
Rich as Avith cherub wings and apples wrought of gold, 

Purple and blue and scarlet — shimmering bells 
And rare pomegranates on its broidered rim, 

Glorious with chain and fretwork that the swell 
Of incense shakes to music dreamy and dim, 

15 



226 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Till on a dny comes loss, that God makes gain, 
And death and darkness rend the veil in twain. 



Ah, sweetest! my beloved! each outward thing 
Recalls my youth, and is instinct with thee ; 

l>i-own wood-owls in the dusk, with noiseless wing, 
Float from yon hanger to their haunted tree, 

And hoot full softly. Listening, I regaiu 

A Hashing thought of thee with their remembered strain. 

I will not pine — it is the careless brook, 

These amber sunbeams slanting down the vale ; 

It is the long tree-shadows, with their look 
Of natural peace, that make my heart to fail : 

The peace of nature — No, I will not pine — 

But O the contrast 'twixt her face and mine ! 

And still I changed — I was a boy no more ; 

My heart was large enough to hold my kind, 
And all the world. As hath been oft before 

With youth, 1 sought, but I could never find 
Work hard enough to quiet my self-strife, 
AjuI use the strength of action-craving life. 

She, too, was changed : her bountiful sweet eyes 
Looked out full lovingly on all the world. 

tender as the deeps in yonder skies 

Their beaming ! but her rosebud lips were curled 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 22; 

With the soft dimple of a musing smile, 

Which kept my gaze, but held me mute the while* 

A cast of bees, a slowly moving wain. 

The scent of bean-flowers wafted up a dell, 

Pjhie pigeons wheeling over fields of grain. 
Or bleat of folded lamb, would please her well ; 

Ov cooing of the early coted dove ; — 

She sauntering mused of these ; I, following, mused of 
love. 

With her two lips, that one the other pressed 

So poutmgly -with such a tranquil air, 
With lier two eyes, that on my own would rest 

So dream-like, she denied my silent prayer. 
Fronted unuttered words and said them nay. 
And smiled down love till it had nought to say. 

The words that through mine eyes would clearly shine 
Hovered and hovered on my lips in vain ; 

If after pause I said but " Eglantine," 
She raised to me her quiet eyelids twain. 

And looked me this reply — look calm, yet bland — 

" I shall not know, I will not understand." 

Yet she did know my story — knew my life 

Was wrought to hers with bindings many and strong : 

That 1, like Israel, served for a wife. 

And lor the love I bare her thought not long, 



228 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

But only a few clays, full quickly told, 
My seven years' service strict as his of old. 

I must be brief: the twilight shadows grow. 
And steal the rose-bloom genial summer sheds, 

And scented wafts of wind that come and go 
Have lifted dew from honeyed clover-heads ; 

Tlie seven stars sliine out above the mill, 

The dark delightsome woods lie veiled and still. 

Hush ! hush ! the nightingale begins to sing, 
And stops, as ill-contented with her note ; 

Then breaks from out the bush with hurried wing, 
Restless and passionate. She tunes her throat, 

Laments awhile in wavering trills, and then 

Floods with a stream of sweetness all the glen. 

The seven stars upon the nearest pool 

Lie trembling down betwixt the lily leaves, 

And move like glowworms ; wafting breezes cool 
Come down along tlie water, and it heaves 

And bubbles in the sedge ; while deep and wide 

The dim night settles on the country side. 

I know this scene by heart. ! once before 
I saw tlie seven stars float to and fro, 

And stayed my hurried footsteps by the shore 
To mark the starry picture spread below : 

Its silence made the tumult in my breast 

More audible ; its peace revealed my own unrest. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



229 



1 paused, then hurried on ; my heart beat quick ; 

I crossed the bridges, reached the steep ascent, 
And climbed through matted tern and hazels thick ; 

Then darkling through the close green maples went 
And saw — there felt love's keenest pangs begin — 
An oriel window lighted from within — 

J saw — and felt that they were scarcely cares 
Which I had known before ; I drew more near, 

And ! methought how sore it frets and wears 
The soul to part with that it holds so dear ; 

'Tis hard two woven tendrils to untwine, 

And I was come to part with Eglantine. 

For life was bitter through those words repressed. 
And youth was burdened with unspoken vows ; 

Love unrequited brooded in my breast. 

And shrank, at glance, from the beloved brows : 

And three long months, heart-sick, my foot withdrawn, 

I had not sought her side by rivulet, copse, or lawn — 

Not sought her side, yet busy thought no less 
Still followed in her wake, though far behind ; 

And T, being parted from her loveliness. 
Looked at the picture of her in my mind : 

1 lived alone, I walked with soul oppressed. 

And ever sighed for her, and sighed for rest. 

Then T had risen to struggle with my heart, 

And said — " () iirait ! the world is tVi'sli and fair. 



230 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

And I am young ; but this thy restless smart 

Changes to bitterness the morning air : 
I will, I must, these weary tetters break — 
I will be free, if only for her sake. 

*•' O let me trouble her no more with sighs ! 

Heart-healing comes by distance, and with time : 
Then let me wander, and enrich mine eyes 

With the green forests of a softer clime. 
Or list by night at sea the wind's low stave 
And long monotonous rockmgs of the wave. 

" Through open solitudes, unbounded meads. 
Where, wading on breast-high in yellow bloom, 

Untamed of man, the shy white lama feeds — 
There would I journey and forget my doom ; 

Or far, O far as sunrise I would see 

The level prairie stretch away from me ! 

" Or I would sail upon the tropic seas, 

Where I'athom long the blood-red dulses grow, 

Droop from the rock and waver in the breeze. 
Lashing the tide to foam ; while calm below 

The muddy mandrakes throng those waters warm, 

And purple, gold, and green, the living blossoms swarm." 

So of my father I did win consent, 

With importunities repeated long. 
To make that duty wdiich had been my bent. 

To dig with strangers alien tombs among, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 231 

And boand to them through desert leagues to pace. 
Or track up rivers to their starting-place. 

For this I had done battle and had won, 

But not alone to tread Arabian sands, 
Measure the shadows of a southern sun, 

Or dig out gods in the old Egyptian lands ; 
But for the dream wherewith I thought to cope — 
The grief of love unraated with love's hope. 

And now I would set reason in array, 

Methought, and fight for freedom manfully, 

Till by long absence there would come a day 
When this my love would not be pain to me ; 

But if I knew my rosebud fair and blest 

I should not pine to wear it on my breast. 

The days fled on ; another week should fling 
A foreign shadow on my lengthening way ; 

Another week, yet nearness did not bring 
A braver heart that hard farewell to say. 

I let the last day wane, the dusk begin, 

Ere I had sought that window lighted from within. 

Sinking and sinking, O my heart ! my heart ! 

Will absence heal thee whom its shade dot 
rend ? 
I reached the little gate, and soft within 

The oriel fell her shadow. She did lend 



232 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



Her loveliness to me, and let me share 
The listless sweetness of those features fair. 

Among thick laurels in tlui gathering gloom, 

Heavy for this our parting, I did stand ; 
Ueside her mother in the lighted room, 

Slie sitting leaned, her cheek upon her hand ; 
And as she read, her sweet voice floating through 
The open casement seemed to mouni me an adieu. 

Youth ! youth ! how buoyant are thy hopes! they tmn. 

Like marigolds, toward tlie sunny side. 
My hopes were buried in a funeral urn, 

And they sprung up like plants and spread them 
wide ; 
Though I had schooled and reasoned them away, 
They gathered smiling near and prayed a holiday. 

Ah, sweetest voice ! how pensive were its tones. 
And how regretful its unconscious pause 1 

" Is it for me her heart this sadness owns, 
And is our parting of to-night the cause ? 

Ah, would it might be so ! " I thought, and stood 

Listening entranced among the underwood. 

I thought it would be something worth the pain 
Of parting, to look once in those deep eyes, 

And take from them an answering look again : 

" When eastern palms," I tliought, " about me rise, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



233 



If 1 might carve our names upon the nnd, 
Betrothed, 1 would not mourn, though leavinj; ther 
behhid.' 

I can be patient, faithful, and most fond 

To unacknowledged lov^ ; 1 can be true 
To this sweet thraldom, this unequal bond, 

This yoke of mine that reaches not to you : 
0, how much more could costly parting buy — 
If not a pledge, one kiss, or, failing that, a sigh ! 

I listened, and she ceased to read ; she turned 
Her face towards tlie laurels whei-e I stood : 

Her mother spoke — O wonder ! hardly learned ; 
She said, " There is a rustling in the wood ; 

All, child ! if one draw near to bid farewell. 

Let not thine eyes an unsought secret tell. 

" My daughter, there is nothing held so dear 

As love, if only it be hard to win. 
The roses that in yonder hedge appear 

Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within ; 
But since the hand may pluck them every day, 
I'u marked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift away. 

" My daughter, my beloved, be not you 

Like those same roses." O bewildering word ? 

My heart stood still, a mist obscured my view : 
It cleai-ed ; still silence. No denial stirred 



234 ^^^ FOUR BRIDGES. 

The lips beloved ; but straight, as one opprest, 
She, kneeling, dropped her face upon her mother's 
breast. 

Tliis said, " My daughter, sorrow comes to all ; 

Our life is checked with shadows manifold : 
But woman has this more — she may not call 

Her sorrow by its name. Yet love not told, 
And only born of absence and by thought, 
With thought and absence may return to nought.*' 

And my beloved lifted up her face, 

And moved her lips as if about to speak ; 

She dropped her lashes with a girlish grace, 
And the rich damask mantled in her cheek : 

I stood awaiting till she should deny 

Her love, or with sweet laughter put it by. 

But, closer nestling to her mothers heart. 

She, blushing, said no word to break my trance, 

For I was breathless ; and, with lips apart, 
Felt my breast pant and all my pulses dance, 

And strove to move, but could not for the weight 

Of unbelieving joy, so sudden and so great, 

Because she loved me. With a mighty sigh 

Breaking away, I left her on her knees. 
And blest the laurel bower, the darkened sky, 

The sultry night of August. Through the trees. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 235 

Giddy with gladness, to the jwrch I went, 

And hardly found the way for joyful wonderment. 

Yet, when I entered, saw her mother sit 

With both hands cherishing tlie graceful head, 

Smoothing the clustered hair, and partmg it 
From the fair brow ; she, rising, only said, 

In the accustomed tone, the accustomed word, 

The careless greeting that I always heard ; 

And she resumed her merry, mocking smile. 

Though tear-drops on the glistening lashes hung. 

O woman ! thou wert fashioned to beguile : 
So have all sages said, all poets sung. 

She spoke of favoring winds and waiting ships. 

With smiles of gratulation on her lips ! 

And then she looked and faltered : I had gi-owno 

So suddenly in life and soul a man : 
She moved her lips, but could not find a tone 

To set her mocking music to ; began 
One struggle for dominion, raised her eyes, 
And straight withdrew them, bashful through surprise 

The color over cheek and bosom flushed ; 

I mio-ht have heard the beatinfj; of her heart. 
But that mine own beat louder ; when she blushed, 

The hand within mine own I felt to start, 
But would not change my pitiless decree 
To strive with her for mijiijht and mastc^rv- 



236 



THE FOUR BRIDGES, 



She looked agaiii, as one that, half afraid, 
Would fain be certain of a doubtful thing; 

Or one beseeching " Do not me upbraid ! " 
And then she trembled like the fluttering 

Of timid little birds, and silent stood, 

No smile wherewith to mock my hardihood. 

She turned, and to an open casement moved 
With girlish shyness, mute beneath ray gaze. 

And I on downcast lashes unreproved 

Could look as long as pleased me : while, the rays 

Of moonlight round her, she her fail" head bent, 

In modest silence to my words attent. 

How fast the giddy ^vhirling moments flew ! 

The moon had set ; I heard the midnight chime ; 
Hope is more brave than fear, and joy than dread, 

And I could wait unmoved the parting tune. 
It came ; for, by a sudden impulse drawn, 
She, risen, stepped out upon the dusky la^vn. 

A little waxen taper in her hand, 

Her feet upon the dry and dewless grass, 

She looked like one of the celestial band. 
Only that on her cheeks did dawn and pass 

Most human blushes ; while, the soft light thrown 

On vesture pure and white, she seemed yet fairer grown. 



Her mother, looking out toward her, sighed. 
Then gave her hand in token of farewell. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 237 

And with her warning eyes, that seemed to chide, 

Scarce suffered that I sought her child to tell 
The story of my life, whose every line 
No other burden bore th^ — Eglantine. 

Black thunder-clouds were rising up behind, 

The waxen taper burned full steadily ; 
It seemed as if dark midnight had a mind 

To hear what lovers say, and her decree 
Had passed for silence, while she, dropped to groun<^ 
With raiment floating wide, drank in the sound. 

happiness ! thou dost not leave a trace 
So well defined as sorrow. Amber light, 

Shed like a glory on her angel face, 

I can remember fully, and the sight 
Of her fair forehead and her shining eyes, 
And lips that smiled in sweet and girlish wise. 

1 can remember how the taper played 

Over her small hands and her vesture white ; 
How it struck up into the trees, and laid 

Upon their under leaves unwonted light ; 
And when she held it low, how far it spread 
O'er velvet pansies slumbering on their bed. 

I can remember that we spoke full low. 

That neither doubted of the other's truth ; 
And that with footsteps slower and more slow, 



2^8 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



Hands folded close for love, eyes wet for ruth : 
Beneath the trees, by that clear taper's Haine, 
We wandered till the gate of parting came. 

But I forget the parting words she said, 

So much they thrilled the all-attentive soul ; 

For one sliort moment human heart and head 
May bear such bliss — its present is the whole : 

1 had that present, till m whispers fell 

With parting gesture her subdued farewell. 

Farewell ! she said, in act to turn away. 
But stood a moment still to dry her tears, 

And sutfered my enfolding arm to stay 
The time of her departure. O ye years 

That intervene betwixt that day and this! 

You all received your hue from that keen pain and blisa 

O mingled pain and bliss ! O pain to break 

At once from happiness so lately found. 
And four long years to feel for her sweet sake 

The incompleteness of all sight and sound ! 
But bliss to cross once more the foaming brine — 
O bliss to come again and make her mine ! 

[ cannot — O, I cannot more recall ! 

But I will soothe my troubled tlioughts to rest 
With musing over journeyings wide, and all 

Observance of this active-humored west, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Aiid swarraing cities steeped in eastern day, 
With swarthy tribes in gold and striped array. 



^39 



I turn away trora these, and straight there will succeed 
(Sliif'ting and changing at the restless will), 

Trabedded in some deep Circassian mead. 

White wagon-tilts, and flocks that eat their fill 

Unseen above, while comely shepherds pass, 

And scarcely show their heads above the grass. 

— The red Sahara in an angry glow. 

With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed 

Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow, 
And women on their necks, from gazers veiled, 

And sun-swart guides who toil across the sand 

To groves of date-trees on the watered land. 

Again — the brown sails of an Arab boat, 

Flapping by night upon a glassy sea, 
Whei-eon the moon and planets seem to float, 

More bright of hue than they were wont to be, 
Wiiile shooting-stars rain down with crackling sound. 
And, thick as swarming locusts, drop to ground. 

Or far into the heat among the sands 

The gembok nations, snulfiiig up the wind, 

Drawn by the scent of water — and the bands 
Of tawny-bearded lions pacing, blind 

With the sun-dazzle in their midst, opprest 

With prey, and spiritless for lack of rest ! 



240 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

"What more ? Old Lebanon, the frosty-browed, 
Setting his feet amonii: oil-olive trees, 

Heaving his bare brown shoulder through a cloud; 
And after, grassy Carmel, purjjle seas. 

Flattering his dreams and echoing in his rocks, 

Soft as the bleating of his thousand flocks. 

F^nough : how vain this thinking to beguile, 
With recollected scenes, an aching breast ! 

Did not I, journeying, muse on her the while ? 
Ah, yes ! for every landscape comes impressed — 

Ay, written on, as by an iron pen — 

With the same thought 1 nursed about her then. 

Therefore let memory turn again to home ; 

Feel, as of old, the joy of drawing near ; 
Watch the green breakers and the wind-tossed foam, 

And see the land-fog break, dissolve, and clear ; 
Then think a skylark's voice far sweeter sound 
Than ever thrilled but over English ground ; 

And walk, glad, even to tears, among the wheat, 
Not doubting this to be the first of lands ; 

And, while in foreign words this murmuring, meet 
Some little village school-girls (with their hands 

Full of forget-me-nots), who, greeting me, 

I count their English talk delightsome melody ; 

And seat me on a bank, and draw them near, 
That I may feast myself with hearing it. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 241 

Till shortly they forget their bashful fear, 

Push back their flaxen curls, and round me sit — 
Tell me their names, their daily tasks, and show- 
Where wild wood-strawberries in the copses grow. 

80 passed the day in this delightful land : 

My heait was thankful for the English tongue — 

For English sky with feathery cloudlets spanned — 
For English hedge with glistening dewdrops hung. 

I journeyed, and at glowing eventide 

Stopped at a rustic inn by the wayside. 

That night I slumbered sweetly, being right glad 
To miss the flapping of the shrouds ; but lo ! 

A quiet dream of beings twain I had, 
Behind the curtain talking soft and low : 

Methought I did not heed their utterance fine. 

Till one of them said, softly, " Eglantine." 

I started up awake, 'twas silence all : 

My own fond heart had shaped that utterance clear ; 
And "Ah! " methought, "how sweetly did it fall, 

Though but in dream, upon the listening ear ! 
How sweet from other lips the name well known — 
That name, so many a year heard only from mine own ! 

I thought awhile, then slumber came to me, 

And tangled all my fancy in her maze, 
And I was drifting on a raft at sea, 
16 



2^2 1'HE FOUR BRIDGES. 

The Dear all ocean, and the far all haze ; 
Through the white polished water sharks did glide, 
And up in heaven I saw no stars to guide. 

" Have mercy, God ! " but lo ! my raft uprose ; 

Drip, drip, I heard the water splash from it ; 
My raft had wings, and as the petrel goes, 

It skimmed the sea, then brooding seemed to sit 
The milk-white mirror, till, with sudden spring, 
She flew straight upward like a living thing. 

But strange ! — I went not also in that flight, 
For I was entering at a cavern's mouth ; 

Trees grew within, and screaming birds of night 
Sat on them, hiding from the torrid south. 

On, on I went, while gleaming in the dark 

Those trees with blanched leaves stood pale and stark 

The trees had flower-buds, nourished in deep night, 

And suddenly, as I went farther in, 
They opened, and they shot out lambent light ; 

Then all at once arose a railing din 
That frighted me : " It is the ghosts," I said, 
" And they are railing for their darkness fled. 

" I hope they will not look me in the face ; 

It frighteth me to hear their laughter loud ; " 
I saw them troop before with jaunty pace. 

And one would shake off dust that soiled her shroud : 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 243 

Bm now, joy unhoped ! to calm my dread. 
Some moonlight filtered through a cleft o'erhead. 

I climbed the lofty trees — the blanched trees — 
The cleft was wide enough to let mu througli ; 

I clambered out and felt the balmy breeze, 

And stepped on churchyard grasses wet with dew. 

happy chance ! O fortune to admire ! 

1 stood beside my own loved village spire. 

And as I gazed upon the yew-tree's trunk, 
Lo, far-off music — music in the night ! 

So sweet and tender as it swelled and sunk ; 
It charmed me till I wept with keen delight. 

And in my dream, methought as it drew near 

The very clouds in heaven stooped low to hear. 

Beat high, beat low, wild heart so deeply stirred, 
For high as heaven runs up the piercing strain ; 

The restless music fluttering like a bird 

Bemoaned herself, and dropped to earth again, 

Heaping up sweetness till I was afraid 

That I should die of grief when it did fade. 

A nd it DID fade ; but while with eager ear 

1 drank ^ts last long echo dying away, 
I was aware of footsteps that drew near, 

And round the ivied chancel seemed to stray : 
O soft above tlie hallowed place they trod — 
Soft as the fall of foot tluit is not shod ! 



244 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



I turned — 'twas even so — yes, Eglantine ! 

For at the first I liad divined the same ; 
I saw the moon on her shut eyelids shine, 

And said, *' She is asleep : " still on she came ; 
Then, on her dimpled feet, I saw it gleam, 
And thought — "I know that this is but a dream." 

My darling ! O my darling ! not the less 

My dream went on because I knew it such ; 

She came towards me in her loveliness — 

A thing too pure, methought, for mortal touch ; 

The rippling gold did on her bosom meet, 

The long white robe descended to her feet. 

The fringed lids dropped low, as sleep-oppressed ; 

Her dreamy smile was very fair to see, 
And her two hands were folded to her breast, 

With somewhat held between them heedfully. 
O fast asleep ! and yet methought she knew 
And felt my nearness those shut eyelids through. 

She sighed : my tears ran down for tenderness — 
" And have I drawn thee to me in my sleep ? 

Is it for me thou wanderest shelterless, 
Wetting thy steps in dewy grasses deep ? 

if this be ! " I said — " yet speak to me ; 

1 blame my very dream for cruelty." 

Then from her stainless bosom she did take 
Two beauteous lily flowers that lay therein, 



245 



TUB FOUR BRIDGES 

And with slow-moving lips a gesture make, 

As one that some forgotten words doth win : 
" They floated on the pool,'* methought she said, 
And water trickled from each lily's head. 



ft dropped upon her feet — I saw it gleam 

Along the ripples of her yellow hair, 
And stood apart, for only in a dream 

She would have come, methought, to meet me there. 
She spoke again — " Ah fair ! ah fresh they shine ! 
And there are many left, and tliese are mine." 

I answered her with flattering accents meet — 
" Love, they are whitest lilies e'er were blown." 

" And sayest thou so ? '* she sighed in murmurs sweet ; 
" I have nought else to give thee now, mine own ! 

For it is night. Then take them, love ! " said she : 

" They have been costly flowers to thee — and me." 

While thus she said I took them from her hand, 
And, overcome with love and nearness, woke ; 

And overcome with ruth that she should stand 
Barefooted in the grass ; that, when she spoke, 

Her mystic words should take so sweet a tone. 

And of all names her lips should choose " My own." 

I rose, I journeyed, neared my home, and soon 
Beheld the spire peer out above the hill ' 

It was a sunny harvest afternoon. 

When by the churchyard wicket, standing still. 



246 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

I cast my eager eyes abroad to know 

If change had touched the scenes of long ago. 

I looked across the hollow ; sunbeams shone 
Upon the old house with the gable ends : 

" Save that the laurel trees are taller grown, 

No change," methought, " to its gray wall extends 

What clear bright beams on yonder lattice shine ! 

There did I sometime talk with Eglantine." 

There standing with my very goal in sight, 
Over my haste did sudden quiet steal ; 

I thought to dally with my own delight, 

Nor rush on headlong to my garnered weal, 

But taste the sweetness of a short delay. 

And for a little moment hold the bliss at bay. 

The church was open ; it perchance might be 
That there to offer thanks I might essay, 

Or rather, as I think, that I might see 

The place where Eglantine was wont to pray. 

But so it was ; I crossed that portal wide, 

And felt my riot joy to calm subside. 

The low depending curtains, gently swayed. 
Cast over arch and roof a crimson glow ; 

But, ne'ertheless, all silence and all shade 
It seemed, save only for the rippling flow 

Of their long foldings, when the sunset air 

Sighed through the casements of the house of prayer. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 247 

I found her place, the ancient oaken stall, 
Where in her childhood I had seen her sit, 

Most saint-like and most tranquil there of all, 
Folding her hands, as if a dreaming fit — 

A heavenly vision had before her strayed 

Of the Eternal Child in lowly manger laid. 

I saw her prayer-book laid upon the seat. 
And took it in my hand, and felt more near 

In fancy to her, finding it most sweet 

To think how very oft, low kneeling there, 

In her devout thoughts she had let me share, 

Ajid set my graceless name in her pure prayer. 

My eyes were dazzled with delightful tears — 
In sooth they were the last I ever shed ; 

For with them fell the cherished dreams of years. 
I looked, and on the wall above my head, 

Over her seat, there was a tablet placed, 

With one word only on the marble traced. — 

Ah, well ! I would not overstate that woe. 
For I have had some blessings, little care ,• 

But since the falling of that heavy blow, 

God's earth has never seemed to me so fair ; 

Nor any of his creatures so divme, 

Nor sleep so sweet ; — the word was — lS^3i^'NBiilSi33 . 




A MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OV 
HER CHILD. 

(f. m. l.) 

IVING CHILD or pictured cherub, 
^2 Ne'er o'ermatched its baby grace ; 
And the mother, moving nearer. 
Looked it calmly in the face ; 
Then with slight and quiet gesture, 

And with lips that scarcely smiled, 
Said — "A Portrait of my daughter 
When she was a child." 

Easy thought was hers to fathom. 

Nothing hard her glance to read, 
For it seemed to say, " No praises 

For this little child I need : 
If you see, I see far better. 

And I will not feign to care 
For a stranger's prompt assurance 
That the face is fair." 



THE CHILD'S PORTRAIT. 

Softly clasped and half extended, 
She her dimpled hands doth lay: 

So they doubtless placed them, saying - 
" Little one, you must not play." 

And while yet his work was growing, 
This the painter's hand hath shown, 

That the little heart was making 
Pictures of its own. 



Is it warm in that green valley. 

Vale of childhood, where you dwell ? 

Is it calm in that green valley, 

Round whose bournes such great hills swell ? 

Are there giants in the valley — 
Giants leaving footprints yet ? 

Are there angels in the valley ? 
Tell me — I forget. 

Answer, answer, for the lilies. 

Little one, o'ertop you much, 
And the mealy gold within them 

You can scarcely reach to touch ; 
O how far their aspect differs, 

Looking up and looking down ! 
You look up in that green valley — 
Valley of renown. 

Are there voices in the valley, 
Lying near the heavenly gate ? 



249 



250 



A MOTHER SHOWING THE 

"When it opens, do the harp-strings, 
Touched within, reverberate ? 

When, like shooting-stars, the^ angels 
To jour couch at nightfall go, 

Are their swift wings heard to rustle ? 
Tell me ! lor you know. 

Yes, you know ; and you are silent, 
Not a word shall asking win ; 

Little mouth more sweet than rosebud, 
Fast it locks the secret in. 

Not a glimpse upon your present 
You unfold to glad my view ; 

Ah, what secrets of your future 
I could tell to you ! 

Sunny present ! thus I read it. 
By remembrance of my past : — 

Its to-day and its to-morrow 

Are as lifetimes vague and vast ; 

And each face in that green valley 
Takes for you an aspect mild, 

And each voice grows soft in saying — 
" Kiss me, little child 1 " 

As a boon the kiss is granted : 
Baby mouth, your touch is sweet, 

Takes the love without the trouble 
From those lips that with it meet ; 



PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. 

Gives the love, O pure ! O tender ! 

Of* the valley where it grows, 
But the baby heart receiveth 

More than it bp:sto\vs. 

G)mes the future to the present — 

" Ah ! " she saith, " too blithe of mood ; 
Why that smile which seems to wiiisper — 

* I am happy, God is good ? ' 
God IS good: that truth eternal 

Sown for you in happier years, 
I must tend it in my shadow, 
Water it with tears. 

" Ah, sweet present ! I must lead thee 

By a daylight more subdued ; 
There must teach thee low to whisper — 

* I am mournfid, God is good ! ' " 
Peace, thou future ! clouds are coming, 

Stooping from the mountain crest, 
But that sunshine floods the valley : 
Let her — let her rest. 

Comes the future to the present — 

" Child," she saith, " and wilt thou rest ? 

How long, child, before thy footsteps 
Fret to reach yon cloudy crest ? 

A-h, the valley ! — angels guard it, 
But the heights are brave to see ; 



25 



252 



A MOTHER SHOWING THE 

Looking down were long contentment: 
Come up, child, to me." 

So she speaks, but do not heed her, 
Little maid with wondrous eyes. 

Not afraid, but clear and tender, 
Blue, and filled with prophecies ; 

Thou for whom life's veil unlifted 
Hangs, whom warmest valleys fold, 

Lift the veil, the charm dissolveth — 
Climb, but heights are cold. 

There are buds that fold within them. 
Closed and covered from our sight, 

Many a richly tinted petal, 
Never looked on by the light : 

Fain to see their shrouded faces, 
Sun and dew are long at strife, 

Till at length the sweet buds open — 
Such a bud is life. 

When the rose of thine own being 
Shall reveal its central fold. 

Thou shalt look within and marvel. 
Fearing what thine eyes behold ; 

What it shows and what it teaches 
Ai-e not things wherewith to part ; 

Thorny rose ! that always costeth 
Beatings at the heart. 



PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. 

Look in fear, for there is dimness ; 

Ills unshapen float anigh. 
Look in awe, for this same nature 

Once the Godhead deigned to die. 
Look in love, for He doth love it, 

And its tale is best of lore : 
Still humanity grows dearer, 

l^eing learned the more. 

Learn, but not the less bethink thee 
How that all can mingle tears ; 

But his joy can none discover, 
Save to them that are his peei-s ; 

And that they whose lips do utter 

Language such as bards have sung — 

Lo ! their speech shall be to many 
As an unknown tongue. 

Learn, that if to thee the meanmg 
Of all other eyes be shown. 

Fewer eyes can ever front thee, 

That are skilled to read thine own ; 

And that if thy love's deep current 
Many another's far outflow\s, 

Then thy heart must take forever, 
Less than it bestows. 



253 




STRIFE AND PEACE. 

(Written for The Portfolio Society, October 1861.) 

HE yellow poplar-leaves came down 

And like a carpet lay, 
No waftings were in the sunny air 
To flutter them away ; 
And he stepped on blithe and debonair 
That warm October day. 

" The boy," saith he, " hath got his own, 

But sore has been the fight. 
For ere his life began the strife 

That ceased but yesternight ; 
For the will," he said, " the kinsfolk read, 

And read it not aright. 

" His cause was argued in the court 

Before his (christening day, 
And counsel was heard, and judge demurred, 

And bitter waxed the fray ; 
Brother with brother spake no word 

When they met in the way. 

" Against each one did each contend, 
And all against the heir. 



STRIFE AND PEACE. 255 

I would not bend, for I knew the end — 

I have it for my share, 
And nought repent, though mj first friend 

From henceforth I must spare. 

" Manor and moor and farm and wold 

Their greed beginidged him sore, 
And parchments old with passionate hold 

They guarded heretofore ; 
And they carped at signature and seal, 

But they may carp no more. 

" An old affront will stir the heart 

Through years of rankling pain, 
And I feel the fret that urged me yet 

That warfare to maintain ; 
For an enemy's loss may well be set 

Above an infant's gain. 

" An enem/s loss I go to prove ; 

Laugh out, thou little heir ! 
Laugh in his face who vowed to chase 

Thee from thy birthright fair ; 
For I come to set thee in thy place : 

Laugh out, and do not spare." 

A man of strife, in wrathful mood 

He neared the nurse's door ; 
With poplar-leaves the roof and eaves 

Were thickly scattered o'er, 



256 STRIFE AND PEACE. 

And yellow as they a sunbeam lay 
Along the cottage floor. 

" Sleep on, thou pretty, pretty lamb," 

He hears the fond nurse say ; 
" And if angels stand at thy right hand, 

As now belike they may, 
And if angels meet at thy bed's feet, 

I fear them not this day. 

** Come wealth, come want to thee, dear heart, 

It was all one to me, 
For thy pretty tongue far sweeter rung 

Than coined gold and fee ; 
And ever the while thy waking smile 

It was right fair to see. 

«■ 
" Sleep, pretty bairn, and never know 

Who grudged and who transgressed ; 
Thee to retain I was full fain, 

But God, He knoweth best ! 
And His peace upon thy brow lies plain 

As the sunshine on thy breast ! " 

The man of strife, he enters in. 
Looks, and his pride doth cease ; 

Anger and sorrow shall be to-morrow 
Trouble, and no release ; 

But the babe whose life awoke the striff 
Hath entered into peace. 



A STORY OF DOOM 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



POEMS 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 




SAW in a vision once, our mother-sphere 

The world, her fixed foredoomed oval tracing, 
Rolling and rolling on and resting never, 
While like a phantom fell, behind her pacing 
The unfurled flag of night, her shadow drear 
Fled as she fled and hung to her forever. 

Great Heaven ! methought, how strange a doom to share. 

Would I may never bear 

Inevitable darkness after me 
(Darkness endowed with drawings strong, 

And shadowy hands that cling unendingly), 

Nor feel that phantom-wings behind me sweep, 
As she feels night pursuing through the long 

Illimitable reaches of " the vasty deep." 



God save you, gentlefolks. There was a man 
Who lay awake at midnight on his bed, 

1 A 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

Watching the spiral flame that feeding ran 

Among the logs upon his hearth, and shed 
A comfortable glow, both warm and dim, 
On crimson curtains that encompassed him. 

Right stately was his chamber, soft and white 
The pillow, and his quilt was eider-down. 

What mattered it to him though all that night 

The desolate driving cloud might lower and frown, 

And winds were up the eddying sleet to chase. 

That drave and drave and found no settling-place ? 

What mattered it that leafless trees might rock. 
Or snow might drift athwart his window-pane ? 

He bare a charmed life against their shock, 
Secure from cold, hunger, and weather stain ; 

Fixed in his right, and born to good estate, 

From common ills set by and separate. 

From work and want and fear of want apart, 

This man (men called him Justice Wilvermore), — 

This man had comforted his cheerful heart 
With all that it desired from every shore. 

He had a right, — the right of gold is strong, — 

He stood upon his right his whole life long. 

Custom makes all things easy, and content 

Is careless, therefore on the storm and cold. 
As he lay waking, never a thought he spent, 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. q 

Albeit across the vale beneath the wold, 
Along a reedy mere that frozen lay, 
A range of sordid hovels stretched away. 

What cause had he to think on them, forsooth ? 

What cause that night beyond another night ? 
He was familiar even from his youth 

With their long ruin and their evil plight. 
The wintry wind would search them like a scout, 
The water froze within as freely as without. 

He think upon them ? No ! They were forlorn, 
So were the cowering inmates whom they held ; 

A thriftless tribe, to shifts and leanness born, 
Ever complaining : infancy or eld 

Alike. But there was rent, or long ago 

Those cottage roofs had met with overthrow. 

For this they stood ; and what his thoughts might be 
That winter night, I know not ; but I know 

That, while the creeping flame fed silently 
And cast upon his bed a crimson glow, 

Tlie Justice slept, and shortly in his sleep 

He fell to dreaming, and his dream was deep. 

He dreamed that over him a shadow came ; 

And when he looked to find the cause, behold 
Some person knelt between him and the flame : — 

A cowering figure of one frail and old, — 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

A woman ; and she prayed as he descried, 

And spread her feeble hands, and shook and sighed. 

" Good Heaven ! " the Justice cried, and being dis- 
traught 

He called not to her, but he looked again : 
She wore a tattered cloak, but she had naught 

Upon her head ; and she did quake amain, 
And spread her wasted hands and poor attire 
To gather in the brightness of his fire. 

" I know you, woman ! " then the Justice cried ; 

" I know that woman well," he cried aloud ; 
" The shepherd Aveland's widow : God me guide ! 

A pauper kneeling on my hearth " : and bowed 
The hag, like one at home, its warmth to share ! 
" How dares she to intrude ? What does she here ? 

" Ho, woman, ho, ! " — but yet she did not stir. 
Though from her lips a fitful plaining broke ; 

" I '11 ring my people up to deal with her ; 

I '11 rouse the house," he cried ; but while he spoke 

He turned, and saw, but distant from his bed. 

Another form, — a Darkness with a head. 

Then in a rage, he shouted, " Who are you ? " 
For little in the gloom he might discern. 

" Speak out ; speak now ; or I will make you rue 
Tlie hour ! " but there was silence, and a stern. 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. q 

Dark face from out the dusk appeared to lean, 
And then again drew back, and was not seen. 

" God ! " cried the dreaming man, right impiously, 
'• What have I done, that these my sleep affray ? " 

" God ! " said the Phantom, " I appeal to Thee, 
Appoint Thou me this man to be my prey." 

" God ! " sighed the kneeling woman, frail and old, 

" I pray Thee take me, for the world is cold." 

Then said the trembling Justice, in affright, 

"Fiend, I adjure thee, speak thine errand here !" 

And lo ! it pointed in the failing light 

Toward the woman, answering, cold and clear, 

" Thou art ordained an answer to thy prayer ; 

But first to tell her tale that kneeleth there." 

" Her tale ! " the Justice cried. " A pauper's tale ! " 
And he took heart at this so low behest, 

And let the stoutness of his will prevail. 

Demanding, " Is 't for her you break my rest ? 

She went to jail oF late for stealing wood, 

She will again for this night's hardihood. 

" I sent her ; and to-morrow, as I live, 
I will commit her for this trespass here." 

" Thou wilt not ! " quoth the Shadow, " thou wilt give 
Her story words " ; and then it stalked anear 

And showed a lowering face, and, dread to see, 

A countenance of angered majesty. 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

Then said the Justice, all his thoughts astray, 
With that material Darkness chiding him, 

" If this must be, then speak to her, I pray, 
And bid her move, for all the room is dim 

By reason of the place she holds to-night : 

She kneels between me and the warmth and light." 

" With adjurations deep and drawings strong, 
And with the power," it said, " unto me given, 

I call upon thee, man, to tell thy wrong. 
Or look no more upon the face of Heaven. 

Speak ! though she kneel throughout the livelong night, 

And yet shall kneel between thee and the light." 

This when the Justice heard, he raised his hands. 

And held them as the dead in effigy 
Hold theirs, when carved upon a tomb. The bands 

Of fate had bound him fast : no remedy 
Was left : his voice unto himself was strange, 
And that unearthly vision did not change. 

He said, " That woman dwells anear my door, 
Her life and mine began the selfsame day. 

And I am hale and hearty : from my store 
I never spared her aught : she takes her way 

Of me unheeded ; pining, pinching care 

Is all the portion that she has to share. 

" She is a broken-down, poor, friendless wight. 
Through labor and through sorrow early old t 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. y 

And I have known of this her evil plight, 

Her scanty earnings, and her lodgment cold ; 
A patienter poor soul shall ne'er be found : 
She labored on my land the long year round. 

" What wouldst thou have me say, thou fiend abhorred ? 

Show me no more thine awful visage orrim. 
If thou obey'st a greater, tell thy lord 

That I have paid her wages. Cry to him ! 
He has not much against me. None can say 
I have not paid her wages day by day. 

" The spell ! It draws me, I must speak again ; 

And speak against myself ; and speak aloud. 
The woman once approached me to complain, — 

* My wages are so low.' I may be proud ; 
It is a fault." " Ay," quoth the Phantom fell, 
" Sinner ! it is a fault : thou sayest well." 

" She made her moan, ' My wages are so low.' " 

" Tell on ! " " She said," he answered, " ' My best 
days 

Are ended, and the summer is but slow 

To come ; and my good strength for work decays 

By reason that I live so hard, and lie 

On winter nights so bare for poverty.' " 

" And you replied," — began the lowering shade, 
" And I rephed," the Justice followed on, 



8 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

" That wages like to mine my neighbor paid ; 

And if I raised the wages of the one 
Straight should the others murmur ; furthermore, 
The winter was as winters gone before. 

" No colder and not longer." " Afterward ? " — 
The Phantom questioned. '" Afterward," he groaned, 

" She said my neighbor was a right good lord, 
Never a roof was broken that he owned ; 

He gave much coal and clothing. ' Doth he so ? 

Work for my neighbor, then,' I answered. ' Go ! 

" ' You are full welcome.' Then she mumbled out 
She hoped I was not angry ; hoped, forsooth, 

I would forgive her : and I turned about. 
And said I should be angry in good truth 

If this should be again, or ever more 

She dared to stop me thus at the church door." 

" Then ? " quoth the Shade ; and he, constrained, said on, 
" Then she, reproved, curtseyed herself away." 

" Hast met her since ? " it made demand anon ; 
And after pause the Justice answered, " Ay ; 

Some wood was stolen ; my people made a stir : 

She was accused, and I did sentence her." 

But yet, and yet, the dreaded questions came : 

" And didst thou weigh the matter, — taking thought 
Upon her sober life and honest fame ? " 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 9 

" I gave it," he replied, with gaze distraught ; 
" I gave it, Fiend, the usual care ; I took 
The usual pains ; I could not nearer look, 



" Because, — because their pilfering had got head. 

What wouldst thou more ? The neighbors pleaded hard, 
'T is true, and many tears the creature shed ; 

But I had vowed their prayers to disregard, 
Heavily strike the first that robbed my land, 
And put down thieving with a steady hand. 

" She said she was not guilty. Ay, 't is true 

She said so, but the poor are liars all. 
O thou fell Fiend, what wilt thou ? Mu^ I view 

Thy darkness yet, and must thy shadow fall 
Upon me miserable ? I have done 
No worse, no more than many a scathless one." 

" Yet," quoth the Shade, " if ever to thine ears 
The knowledge of her blamelessness was brought, 

Or others have confessed with dying tears 

The crime she suffered for, and thou hast wrought 

All reparation in thy power, and told 

Into her empty hand thy brightest gold : — 

" If thou hast honored her, and hast proclaimed 

Her innocence and thy deplored wrong, 
Still thou art nought ; for thou shalt yet be blamed 

In that she, feeble, came before thee strong, 



lO THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

And thou, in cruel haste to deal a blow, 

Because thou hadst been angered, worked her woe. 

" But didst thou right her ? Speak ! " The Justice sighed, 
And beaded drops stood out upon his brow ; 

" How could I humble me," forlorn he cried, 
" To a base beggar ? Nay, I will avow 

That I did ill. I will reveal the whole ; 

I kept that knowledge in my secret soul." 

" Hear him ! " the Phantom muttered ; " hear this man, 
O changeless God upon the judgment throne." 

With that, cold tremors through his pulses ran, 
And lamentably he did make his moan ; 

While, with its ai'ras upraised above his head, 

The dim dread visitor approached his bed. 

" Into these doors," it said, " which thou hast closed, 
Daily this woman shall from henceforth come ; 

Her kneeling form shall yet be interposed 

Till all thy wretched hours have told their sum ; 

Shall yet be interposed by day, by night, 

Between thee, sinner, and the warmth and light. 

" Remembrance of her want shall make thy meal 
Like ashes, and thy wrong thou shalt not right. 

But what ! Nay, verily, nor wealth nor weal 
From henceforth shall afford thy soul delight. 

Till men shall lay thy head beneath the sod, 

There shall be no deliverance, saith my God." 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. n 

*^ Tell me thy name," the dreaming Justice cried ; 

" By what appointment dost thou doom me thus ? " 
" 'T is well that thou shouldst know me," it replied, 

" For mine thou art, and nought shall sever us ; 
From thine own lips and life I draw my force : 
Tlie name thy nation give me is Remorse." 

Tiiis when he heard, the dreaming man cried out, 
And woke affrighted ; and a crimson glow 

The dying ember shed. Within, without, 
In eddying rings the silence seemed to flow ; 

The wind had lulled, and on his forehead shone 

The last low gleam ; he was indeed alone. 

" O, I have had a fearful dream," said he ; 

" I will take warning and for mercy trust ; 
The fiend Remorse shall never dwell with me : 

I will repair that wrong, I will be just, 
I will be kind, I will my ways amend." 
Now the Jirst dream is told unto its end. 

Anigli the frozen mere a cottage stood, 

A piercing wind swept round and shook the door. 

The shrunken door, and easy way made good, 
And drave long drifts of snow alons; the floor. 

It sparkled there like diamonds;, for the moon 

Was shining in, and night was at the noon. 

Before her dying embers, bent and pale, 
A woman sat because her bed was cold ; 



12 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE, 

She heard the wind, the driving sleet and hail, 

And she was hunger-bitten, weak and old ; 
Yet while she cowered, and while the casement shook;. 
Upon her trembling knees she held a book, — 

A comfortable book for them that mourn, 
And good to raise the courage of the poor ; 

It lifts the veil and shows, beyond the bourne, 
Their Elder Brother, from His home secure, 

That for them desolate He died to win. 

Repeating, " Come, ye blessed, enter in." 

What thought she on, this woman ? on her days 
Of toil, or on the supperless night forlorn ? 

I think not so ; the heart but seldom weighs 
With conscious care a burden always borne ; 

And she was used to these things, had grown old 

In fellowship with toil, hunger, and cold. 

Then did she think how sad it was to live 
Of all the good this world can yield bereft ? 

No, her untutored thoughts she did not give 
To such a theme ; but in their warp and weft 

She wove a prayer : then in the midnight deep 

Faintly and slow she fell away to sleep. 

A strange, a maryellous sleep, which brought a dream. 

And it was this : that all at once she heard 
The pleasant babbling of a little stream 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

That ran beside her door, and then a bird 
Broke out in songs. She looked, and lo ! the rime 
* And snow had melted ; it was summer time ! 

And all the cold was over, and the mere 

Full sweetly swayed the flags and rushes green ; 

The mellow sunlight poured right warm and clear 
Into her casement, and thereby were seen 

Fair honeysuckle flowers, and wandering bees 

Were hovering round the blossom-laden trees. 

She said, " I will betake me to my door, 

And will look out and see this wondrous sight, 

How summer is come back, and frost is o'er, 
And all the air warm waxen in a night." 

With that she opened, but for fear she cried. 

For lo ! two Angels, — one on either side. 

And while she looked, with marvelling measureless. 
The Angels stood conversing face to face. 

But neither spoke to her. " The wilderness," 
One Angel said, " the solitary place. 

Shall yet be glad for Him." And then full fain 

The other Angel answered, " He shall reign." 

And when the woman heard, in wondering wise. 
She whispered, " They are speaking of my Lord." 

And straightway swept across the open skies 
Multitudes like to these. They took the word. 



13 



14 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

That flock of Angels, " He shall come again, 

My Lord, my Lord ! " they sang, " and He shall reign ! '* 

Then they, drawn up into the blue o'er-head, 
Right happy, shining ones, made haste to flee ; 

And those before her one to other said, 

" Behold He stands aneath yon almond-tree." 

This when the woman heard, she fain had gazed, 

But paused for reverence, and bowed down amazed. 

After she looked, for this her dream was deep ; 

She looked, and there was nought beneath the tree ; 
Yet did her love and longing overleap 

The fear of Angels, awful though they be, 
And she passed out between the blessed things, 
And brushed her mortal weeds against their wings. 

O, all the happy world was in its best. 

The trees were covered thick with buds and flowers, 
And these were dropping honey ; for the rest. 

Sweetly the birds were piping in their bowers ; 
Across the grass did groups of Angels go. 
And Saints in pairs were walking to and fro. 

Then did she pass toward the almond-tree. 
And none she saw beneath it : -yet each Saint 

Upon his coming meekly bent the knee, 

And all their glory as they gazed waxed faint. 

And then a 'lighting Angel neared the place, 

And folded his fair wings before his face. 



THE DUE AM S THAT CAME TRUE. 

She also knelt, and spread her aged hands 
As feeling for the sacred human feet; 

She said, " Mine eyes are held, but if He stands 
Anear, I will not let Him hence retreat 

Except He bless me." Then, O sweet ! O fair ! 

Some words were spoken, but she knew not where. 

She knew not if beneath the boughs they woke, 
Or dropt upon her from the realms above ; 

" What wilt thou, woman ? " in the dream He spoke, 
" Thy sorrow moveth Me, thyself I love ; 

Long have I counted up thy mournful years, 

Once I did weep to wipe away thy tears." 

She said : " My one Redeemer, only blest, 

I know Thy voice, and from my yearning heart 

Draw out my deep desire, my great request, 
My prayer, that I might enter where Thou art. 

Call me, O call from this world troublesome, 

And let me see Thy face." He answered, " Come." 

Here is the ending of the second dream. 

It is a frosty morning, keen and cold. 
Fast locked are silent mere and frozen stream, 

And snow lies sparkling on the desert wold ; 
With savory morning meats they spread the board. 
But Justice Wilvermore will walk abroad. 

" Bring me my cloak," quoth he, as one in haste. 
" Before you breakfast, sir? " his man replies. 



15 



1 6 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

*' Ay," quoth he quickly, and he will not taste 

Of aught before him, but in urgent wise 
As he would fain some carking care allay, 
Across the frozen field he takes his way. 

" A dream ! how strange that it should move me so, 
'T was but a dream," quoth Justice Wilvermore : 

" And yet I cannot peace nor pleasure know. 
For wrongs I have not heeded heretofore ; 

Silver and gear the crone shall have of me. 

And dwell for life in yonder cottage free. 

" For visions of the night are fearful things, 
Remorse is dread, though merely in a dream ; 

I will not subject me to visitings 

Of such a sort again. I will esteem 

My peace above my pride. From natures rude 

A httle gold will buy me gratitude. 

" The woman shall have leave to gather wood. 
As much as she may need, the long year round ; 

She shall, I say, — moreover, it were good 
Yon other cottage roofs to render sound. 

Thus to my soul the ancient peace restore. 

And sleep at ease," quoth Justice Wilvermore. 

With that he nears the door : a frosty rime 
Is branching over it, and drifts are deep 
Against the wall. He knocks, and there is time, — - 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. ly 

(For none doth open), — time to list the sweep 
And whistle of the wind along the mere 
Through beds of stiffened reeds and rushes sere. 

" If she be out, I have my pains for nought," 
He saith, and knocks again, and yet once more, 

But to his ear nor step nor stir is brought ; 
And after pause, he doth unlatch the door 

And enter. No : she is not out, for see 

She sits asleep 'mid frost-work winterly. 

Asleep, asleep before her empty grate. 

Asleep, asleep, albeit the landlord call. 
"What, dame," he saith, and comes toward her 
straight, 

" Asleep so early ! " But whate'er befall, 
She sleepeth ; then he nears her, and behold 
He lays a hand on hers, and it is cold. 

Then doth the Justice to his home return ; 

From that day forth he wears a sadder brow ; 
His hands are opened, and his heart doth learn 

The patience of the poor. He made a vow 
And keeps it, for the old and sick have shared 
His gifts, their sordid homes he hath repaired. 

And some he hath made happy, but for him 

Is happiness no more. He doth repent. 
And now the light of joy is w^axen dim, 



1 8 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

Are all his steps toward the Highest sent ; 
He looks for mercy, and he waits release 
Above, for this world doth not yield him peace. 

Night after night, night after desolate night, 
Day after day, day after tedious day, 

Stands by his fire, and dulls its gleamy light, 
Paceth behind or meets him in the way ; 

Or shares the path by hedgerow, mere, or stream, 

The visitor that doomed him in his dream. 



Thy kingdom come. 
I heard a Seer cry, — " The wilderness, 

The solitary place. 
Shall yet be glad for Him, and He shall bless 
(Thy kingdom come) with his revealed face 
The forests ; they shall drop their precious gum, 
And shed for Him their balm : and He shall yield 
The grandeur of His speech to charm the field. 

" Then all the soothed winds shall drop to listen, 

(Thy kingdom come,) 
Comforted waters waxen calm shall glisten 
With bashful tremble men t beneath His smile : 

And Echo ever the while 
Shall take, and in her awful joy repeat, 
The laughter of His lips — (thy kingdom come) : 
And hills that sit apart shall be no longer dumb ; 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. ig 

No, they shall shout and shout, 
Raining their lovely loyalty along the dewy plain : 
And valleys round about, 

" And all the well-contented land, made sweet 

With flowers she opened at His feet, 
Shall answer ; shout and make the welkin ring 
And tell it to the stars, shout, shout, and sing ; 

Her cup being full to the brim. 

Her poverty made rich with Him, 
Her yearning satisfied to its utmost sum, — 
Lift up thy voice, O earth, prepare thy song, 

It shall not yet be long. 
Lift up, O earth, for He shall come again, 
Thy Lord ; and He shall reign, and He shall reign, — 

Thy kingdom come." 



SONGS 



ON 



THE VOICES OF BIRDS 




SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

INTRODUCTION. 

CHILD AND BOATMAN. 

^ARTIN, I wonder who makes all the songs." 
"You do, sir?" 

" Yes, I wonder how they come." 
" Well, boy, I wonder what you '11 wonder next ! " 
" But somebody must make them ? " 

" Sure enough." 
" Does your wife know ? " 

" She never said she did." 
" You told me that she knew so many things." 
" I said she was a London woman, sir, 
And a fine scholar, but I never said 
She knew about the songs." 

« I wish she did." 
*' And T wish no such thing ; she knows enough, 
She knows too much already. Look you now, 
This vessel 's off the stocks, a tidy craft." 
" A schooner, Martin ? " 

" No, boy, no ; a brig, 
Only she *s schooner rigged, — a lovely craft." 



24 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

" Is she for me ? O, thank you, Martin, dear. 
What shall I call her ? " 

" Well, sir, what you please." 
" Then write on her ' The Eagle.' " 

" Bless the child ! 
Eagle ! why, you know naught of eagles, you. 
When we lay off the coast, up Canada way, 
And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell. 
That was the place for eagles ; bald they were, 
• With eyes as yellow as gold." 

" O, Martin, dear, 
Tell me about them." 

" Tell ! there 's nought to tell. 
Only they snored o' nights and frighted us." 
"Snored?" 

" Ay, I tell you, snored ; they slept upright 
In the great oaks by scores ; as true as time, 
If I 'd had aught upon my mind just then, 
I would n't have walked that wood for unknown gold ; 
It was most awful. When the moon was full, 
I 've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch. 
When she got low. I 've seen them plunge like stones, 
And come up fighting with a fish as long, 
Ay, longer than my arm ; and they would sail, — 
When they had struck its life out, — they would sail 
Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes. 
And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, and speed 
Grand as a frigate on a wind." 

" My ship, 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

She must be called ' The Eagle ' after these. 
And, Martin, ask your wife about the songs 
When you go in at dinner-time." 

"Not I." 



25 



THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE 
UNSATISFIED HEART. 

WHEN in a May-day hush 
Chanteth the Missel-thrush 
The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous 
stirs ; 
When Robin-redbreast sings, 
We think on budding springs, 
And Culvers when they coo are love's remembrancers. 

But thou in the trance of light 

Stayest the feeding night, 
And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance wise, 

And casts at our glad feet, 

In a wisp of fancies fleet, 
Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies. 

H^r central thought full well 
Thou hast the wit to tell. 
To take the sense o' the dark and to yield it so ; 



26 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

The moral of moonlight 
To set in a cadence bright, 
And sing our loftiest dream that we thought none did 
know. 

I have no nest as thou, 

Bird on the blossoming bough, • 
Yet over thy tongue outfloweth the song o' my soul, 

Chanting, " forego thy strife, 

The spirit out-acts the life, 
But MUCH is seldom theirs who can perceive the whole. 

" Thou drawest a perfect lot 

All thine, but hold en not, 
Lie low, at the feet of beauty that ever shall bide ; 

There might be sorer smart 

Than thine, far-seeing heart, 
Whose fate is still to yearn, and not be satisfied." 



I 



SAND MARTINS. 

PASSED an inland-cliff precipitate; 
From tiny caves peeped many a sooty poll ; 
In each a mother-martin sat elate. 

And of the news delivered her small soul. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 27 

Fantastic chatter ! hasty, glad, and gay, 

Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell : 
. " Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day ? " 

" Gossip, the world wags well, the world wags well." 

And heark'ning, I was sure their little ones 
Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made 

Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns, 
For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed ; — 

And visions of the sky as of a cup 

Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand. 

And quivering air-waves trembling up and up, 
And blank stone faces marvellously bland. 

" When should the young be fledged and with them hie 
Where costly day drops down in crimson light ? 

(Fortunate countries of the firefly 

Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultry night, 

" And the immortal moon takes turn with them.) 
When should they pass again by that red land. 

Where lovely mirage works a broidered hem 
To fringe with phantom-palms a robe of sand ? 



" When should they dip their breasts again and |)laj 
In shimberous azure pools, clear as the air, 

Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all day, 
Stalking amid the lotus blossom fair? 



28 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS, 

" Then, over podded tamarinds bear their flight, 
While cassias blossom in the zone of calms, 

And so betake them to a south sea-bight, 
To gossip in the crowns of cocoa-palms 

" Whose roots are in the spray. 0, haply there 

Some dawn, white-winged they might chance to find 

A frigate standing in to make more fair 
The loneliness unaltered of mankind. 

" A frigate come to water : nuts would fall, 

And nimble feet would climb the flower-flushed 
strand, 

While northern talk would ring, and there withal 
The martins would desire the cool north land. 

" And all would be as it had been before ; 

Again at eve there would be news to tell ; 
Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and o'er, 

* Gossip, how wags the world ? * ' Well, gossip, 
well.' " 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 29 



A POET IN HIS YOUTH, AND THE 
CUCKOO-BIRD. 

ONCE upon a time, I lay 
Fast asleep at dawn of day ; 
Windows open to the south, 
Fancy pouting her sweet mouth 
To my ear. 

She turned a globe 
In her slender hand, her robe 
Was all spangled ; and she said, 
As she sat at my bed's head, 
" Poet, poet, what, asleep ! 
Look ! the ray runs up the steep 
To your roof." Then in the golden 
Essence of romances olden. 
Bathed she my entranced heart. 
And she gave a hand to me. 
Drew me onward, " Come ! " said she ; 
And she moved with me apart, 
Down the lovely vale of Leisure. 

Such its name was, I heard say. 
For some Fairies trooped that way ; 
Common people of the place. 
Taking their accustomed pleasure, 
(All the clocks being stojiped) to race 



30 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS, 

Down the slope on palfreys fleet. 
Bridle bells made tinkling sweet ; 
And they said, " What signified 
Faring home till eventide : 
There were pies on every shelf, 
And the bread would bake itself." 
But for that I cared not, fed, 
As it were, with angels' bread. 
Sweet as honey ; yet next day 
All foredoomed to melt away ; 
Gone before the sun waxed hot, 
Melted manna that was not. 

Rock-doves' poetry of plaint, 
Or the starling's courtship quaint ; 
Heart made much of, 't was a boon 
Won from silence, and too soon 
Wasted in the ample air : 
Building rooks far distant were. 
Scarce at all would speak the rills, 
And I saw the idle hills. 
In their amber hazes deep. 
Fold themselves and go to sleep, 
Though it was not yet high noon. 

Silence ? Rather music brought 
From the spheres ! As if a thought, 
Having taken wings, did fly 
Tlirough the reaches of the sky. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS, 31 

Silence ? No, a sumptuous sigh 
That had found embodiment, 
That had come across the deep 
After months of wintry sleep, 
And with tender heavings went 
Floating up the firmament, 

" O," I mourned, half slumbering yet, 
" 'T is the voice of my regret, — 
Mine / " and I awoke. Full s\yeet 
Saffron sunbeams did me greet ; 
And the voice it spake again, 
Dropped from yon blue cup of light 
Or some cloudlet swan's-down white 
On my soul, that drank full fain 
The sharp joy — the sweet pain — 
Of its clear, right innocent, 
Unreproved discontent. 



How it came — where it went — 
Who can tell ? The open blue 
Quivered with it, and I, too, 
Trembled. I remembered me 
Of the springs that used to be. 
When a dimpled w^hite-haired child, 
Shy and tender and hah" wild, 
In the meadows I had heard 
Some way off the talking bird. 
And had felt it marvellous sweet, 



32 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS, 

For it laughed : it did me greet, 
Calling me : yet, hid away 
In the woods, it would not play. 
No. 

And all the world about, 
While a man will work or sing, 
Or a child pluck flowers of spring. 
Thou wilt scatter music out, 
Rouse him with thy wandering note, 
Changeful fancies set afloat, 
Almost tell with thy clear throat. 
But not quite, — the wonder-rife. 
Most sweet riddle, dark and dim. 
That he searcheth all his life, 
Searcheth yet, and ne'er expoundeth 5 
And so winnowing of thy wings. 
Touch and trouble his heart's strings, 
That a certain music soundeth 
In that wondrous instrument. 
With a trembling upward sent. 
That is reckoned sweet above 
By the Greatness surnamed Love. 

" 0, I hear thee in the blue ; 
Would that I might wing it too ! 
O to have what hope hath seen ! 
O to be what might have been ! 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 33 

" O to set my life, sweet bird, 
To a tune that oft I heard 
When I used to stand alone 
Listening to the lovely moan 
Of the swaying pines o'erhead, 
While, a-gathering of bee-bread 
For their living, murmured round, 
As the pollen dropped to ground, 
All the nations from the hives ; 
And the little brooding wives 
On each nest, brown dusky things, 
Sat with gold-dust on their wings. 
Then beyond (more sweet than all) 
Talked the tumbling waterfall ; 
And there were, and there were not 
(As might fall, and form anew 
Bell-hung drops of honey-dew) 
Echoes of — I know not what ; 
As if some right-joyous elf. 
While about his own affairs, 
Whistled softly otherwheres. 
Nay, as if our mother dear. 
Wrapped in sun-warm atmosphere. 
Laughed a little to herself, 
Laughed a little as she rolled. 
Thinking on the days of old. 

" Ah ! there be some hearts, I wis, 
To which nothing comes amiss. 

3 C 



34 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

Mine vva& one. Much secret wealth 
I was heir to : and by stealth, 
When the moon was fully grown, 
And she thought herself alone, 
I have heard her, ay, right well, 
Shoot a silver message down 
To the unseen sentinel 
Of a still, snow-thatched town. 

" Once, awhile ago, I peered 
In the nest where Spring was reared. 
There, she quivering her fair wings, 
Flattered March with chirrupings ; 
And they fed her ; nights and days. 
Fed her mouth with much sweet food, 
And her heart with love and praise. 
Till the wild thing rose and flew 
Over woods and water-springs. 
Shaking off the morning dew 
In a rainbow from her wings. 

" Once (I will to you confide 
More), O once in forest wide, 
I, benighted, overheard 
Marvellous mild echoes stirred. 
And a calling half defined, 
And an answering from afar ; 
Somewhat talked with a star. 
And the talk was of mankind. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS, 35 

" * Cuckoo, cuckoo ! ' 

Float anear in upper blue : 

Art thou yet a prophet true ? 

Wilt thou say, ' And having seen 

Things that be, and have not been, 

Thou art free o' the world, for naught 

Can despoil thee of thy thought ' ? 

Nay, but make me music yet, 

Bird, as deep as my regret, 

For a certain hope hath set. 

Like a star ; and left me heir 

To a crying for its light. 

An aspiring infinite, 

And a beautiful despair ! 

" Ah ! no more, no more, no more 
I shall lie at thy shut door. 
Mine ideal, my desired. 
Dreaming thou wilt open it, 
And step out, thou most admired. 
By my side to fare, or sit, 
Quenching hunger and all drouth 
With the wit of thy fair mouth. 
Showing me the wished prize 
In the calm of thy dove's eyes, 
Teaching me the wonder-rife 
Majesties of human life, 
All its fairest possible sum, 
And the grace of its to come. 



36 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

" What a difference ! Why of late 

All sweet music used to say, 

* She will come, and with thee stay 

To-morrow, man, if not to-day.' 

Now it murmurs, ' Wait, wait, wait ! ' " 



A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE. 

I SAW when I looked up, on either hand, 
A pale high chalk-cliff, reared aloft in white ; 
A narrowing rent soon closed toward the land, — 
Toward the sea, an open yawning bight. 

The polished tide, with scarce a hint of blue, 
Washed in the bight ; above with angry moan 

A raven, that was robbed, sat up in view, 
Croaking and crying on a ledge alone. 

** Stand on thy nest, spread out thy fateful wings, 
With sullen hungry love bemoan thy brood. 

For boys have wrung their necks, those imp-like things, 
Whose beaks dripped crimson daily at their food. 

" Cry, thou black prophetess ! cry, and despair, 
None love thee, none ! Their father was thy foe. 

Whose father in his youth did know thy lair. 
And steal thy little demons long ago. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 37 

" Thou madest many cliilcUess for their sake, 
And picked out many eyes that loved the light. 

Cry, thou black prophetess ! sit up, awake, 

Forebode ; and ban them through the desolate night " 

Lo ! while I spake it, with a crimson hue 
The dipping sun endowed that silver flood, 

And all the cliffs flushed red, and up she flew, 
The bird, as mad to bathe in airy blood. 

" Nay, thou mayst cry, the omen is not thine, 
Thou aged priestess of fell doom, and fate. 

It is not blood : thy gods are making wine, 
They spilt the must outside their city gate, 

" And stained their azure pavement with the lees : 
They will not listen though thou cry aloud. 

Old Chance, thy dame, sits mumbling at her ease. 
Nor hears ; the fair hag, Luck, is in her shroud. 

" They heed not, they withdraw the sky-hung sign -. 

Thou hast no charm against the favorite race ; 
Thy gods pour out for it, not blood, but wine : 

There is no justice in their dwelling-place ! 

" Safe in their father's house the boys shall rest, 
Though thy fell brood doth stark and silent lie ; 

Their unborn sons may yet despoil thy nest : 
Cry, thou black prophetess ! lift up ! ciy, cry ! " 



^,8 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 



THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS. 

WHEN I hear the waters fretting, 
When I see the chestnut letting 
All her lovely blossom falter down, I think, " Alas the 
day ! " 
Once with magical sweet singing, 
Blackbirds set the woodland ringing, 
Tliat awakes no more while April hours wear themselves 
away. 

In our hearts fair hope lay smiling. 
Sweet as air, and all beguiling ; 
And there hung a mist of bluebells on the slope and down 
the dell ; 
And we talked of joy and splendor 
That the years unborn would render. 
And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for they knew 
it well. 

Piping, fluting, " Bees are humming, 

April 's here, and summer 's coming ; 
Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in pride 
and joy ; 

Think on us in alleys ^hady. 

When you step a graceful lady ; 
For no fairer day have we to hope for, little girl and boy. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 39 

" Laugh and play, O lisping waters, 
Lull our downy sons and daughters ; 
Come, O wind, and rock their leafy cradle in thy wander- 
ings coy ; 
When they wake we 'II end the measure 
With a wild sweet cry of pleasure, 
And a * Hey down derry, let 's be merry ! little girl and 
boy!'" 



SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TBIE. 

I WALKED beside a dark gray sea, 
And said, " O world, how cold thou art ! 
Thou poor white world, I pity thee. 
For joy and warmth from thee depart. 

" Yon rising wave licks off the snow, 
Winds on the crag each other chase, 

In little powdery whirls they blow 
The misty fragments down its face. 

" The sea is cold, and dark its rim, 
Winter sits cowering on the wold, 

And I beside this watery brim, 
Am also lonely, also cold." 



40 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

I spoke, and drew toward a rock, 

Where many mews made twittering sweet ; 
Their wings upreared, the clustering flock 

Did pat the sea-grass with their feet. 

A rock but half submerged, the sea 
Ran up and washed it while they fed ; 

Their fond and foolish ecstasy 
A wondering in my fancy bred. 

Joy corapanied with every cry, 

Joy in their food, in that keen wind, 

That heaving sea, that shaded sky. 
And in themselves, and in their kind. 

The phantoms of the deep at play ! 

What idless graced the twittering things ; 
Luxurious paddlings in the spray, 

And delicate lifting up of wings. 

Then all at once a flight, and fast 
The lovely crowd flew out to sea ; 

If mine own life had been recast, 

Earth had not looked more changed to me. 

" Where is the cold ? Yon clouded skies 
Have only dropt their curtains low 

To shade the old mother where she lies 
Sleeping a little, 'neuth the snow. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS, 41 

" The cold is not in crag, nor scar, 

Not in the snows that lap the lea, 
Not in yon wings that beat afar, 

Delighting, on the crested sea ; 



" No, nor in yon exultant wind 

That shakes the oak and bends the pine. 
Look near, look in, and thou shalt find 

No sense of cold, fond fool, but thine ! " 



With that I felt the gloom depart, 
And thoughts within me did unfold, 

Whose sunshine warmed me to the heart, — 
I walked in joy, and was not cold. 




LAURANCE. 



E knew she did not love him ; but so long 
As rivals were unknown to him, he dwelt 
At ease, and did not find his love a pain. 



He had much deference in his nature, need 

To honor — it became him ; he was frank. 

Fresh, hardy, of a joyous mind, and strong, — 

Looked all things straight in the face. So when she came 

Before him first, he looked at her, and looked 

No more, but colored to his healthful brow. 

And wished himself a better man, and thought 

On certain things, and wished they were undone, 

Because her girlish innocence, the grace 

Of her umblemished pureness, wrought in him 

A longing and aspiring, and a shame 

To think how wicked was the world, — that world 

Which he must walk in, — while from her (and such 

As she was) it was hidden ; there was made 

A clean path, and the girl moved on like one 

In some enchanted ring. 



LAURANCE. 

In his young heart 
She reigned, with all the beauties that she had, 
And all the virtues that he rightly took 
For granted ; there he set her with her crown, 
And at her first enthronement he turned out 
Much that was best away, for unaware 
His thoughts grew noble. She was always there 
And knew it not, and he grew like to her 
And like to what he thought her. 

Now he dwelt 
With kin that loved him well, — two fine old folk, 
A rich, right honest yeoman, and his dame, — 
Their only grandson he, their pride, their heir. 

To these, one daughter had been born, one child, 
And as she grew to woman, " Look," they said, 
" She must not leave us ; let us build a wing, 
With cheerful rooms and wide, to our old grange ; 
There may she dwell, with her good man, and all 
God sends them." Then the girl in her first youth 
Married a curate, — handsome, poor in purse, 
Of gentle blood and manners, and he lived 
Under her father's roof, as they had planned. 

Full soon, for happy years are short, they filled 
The house with children ; four were born to them. 
Then came a sickly season ; fever spread 
Among the poor. The curate, never slack 
In duty, praying by the sick, or worse, 



43 



44 . LAURANCE. 

Burying the dead, when all the air was clogged 
With poisonous mist, was stricken ; long he lay 
Sick, almost to the death, and when his head 
He lifted from the pillow, there was left 
One only of that pretty flock : his girjs. 
His three, were cold beneath the sod ; his boy, 
Their eldest born, remained. 

The drooping wife 
Bore her great sorrow in such quiet wise. 
That first they marvelled at her, then they tried 
To rouse her, showing her their bitter grief. 
Lamenting, and not sparing ; but she sighed, 
" Let me alone, it will not be for long." 
Then did her mother tremble, murmuring out, 
" Dear child, the best of comfort will be soon. 
O, when you see this other little face, 
You will, please God, be comforted." 

She said, 
" 1 shall not live to see it " ; but she did, — 
A little sickly face, a wan, thin face. 
Then she grew eager, and her eyes were bright 
When she would plead with them : " Take me away, 
Let me go south ; it is the bitter blast 
That chills my tender babe ; she cannot thrive 
Under the desolate, dull, mournful cloud." 
Then all they journeyed south together, mute 
With past and coming sorrow, till the sun, 
In gardens edging the blue tideless main. 
Warmed them and calmed the aching at their hearts. 



LA URANCE. 

And all went better for a while ; but not 
For long. They sitting by the orange-trees 
Once rested, and the wife was very still : 
One woman with narcissus flowers heaped up 
Let down her basket from her head, but paused 
With pitying gesture, and drew near and stooped, 
Taking a white wild face upon her breast, — 
The little babe on its poor mother's knees, 
None marking it, none knowing else, had died. 

The fading mother could not stay behind, 
Her heart was broken ; but it awed them most 
To feel they must not, dared not, pray for life. 
Seeing she longed to go, and went so gladly. 

After, these three, who loved each other well, 
Brought their one child away, and they were best 
Together in the wide old grange. Full oft 
The father with the mother talked of her, 
Their daughter, but the husband nevermore ; 
He looked for solace in his work, and gave 
His mind to teach his boy. And time went on, 
Until the grandsire prayed those other two 
" Now part with him ; it must be ; for his good : 
He rules and knows it ; choose for him a school, 
Let him have all advantages, and all 
Good training that should make a gentleman." 

With that they parted from their boy, and lived 



45 



46 LAURA NCE. 

Longing between his holidays, and time 

Sped ; he grew on till he had eighteen years. 

His father loved him, wished to make of him 

Another parson ; but the farmer's wife 

Murmured at that : " No, no, they learned bad ways, 

They ran in debt at college ; she had heard 

That many rued the day they sent their boys 

To college " ; and between the two broke in 

His grandsire : " Find a sober, honest man, 

A scholar, for our lad should see the world 

While he is young, that he may marry young. 

He will not settle and be satisfied 

Till he has run about the world awhile. 

Good lack, I longed to travel in my youth, 

And had no chance to do it. Send him off, 

A sober man being found to trust him with. 

One with the fear of God before his eyes." 

And he prevailed ; the careful fether chose 

A tutor, young, — the worthy matron thought, — 

In truth, not ten years older than her boy, 

And glad as he to range, and keen for snows, 

Desert, and ocean. And they made strange choice 

Of where to go, left the sweet day behind. 

And pushed up north in whaling ships, to feel 

What cold was, see the blowing whale come up. 

And Arctic creatures, while a scarlet sun 

Went round and round, crowd on the clear blue berg. 

Then did the trappers have them ; and they heard 



LAURANCE. 

Nightly the whistling calls of forest-men 

That mocked the forest wonners ; and they saw 

Over the open, raging up like doom, 

The dangerous dust-cloud, that was full of eyes, — 

The bisons. So were three years gone like one ; 

And the old cities drew them for a while. 

Great mothers, by the Tiber and the Seine ; 

They have hid many sons hard by their seats, 

But all the air is stirring with them still. 

The waters murmur of them, skies at eve 

Are stained with their rich blood, and every sound 

Means men. 

At last, the fourth year running out, 
The youth came home. And all the cheerful house 
Was decked in fresher colors, and the dame 
Was full of joy. But in the father's heart 
Abode a painful doubt. "• It is not well ; 
He cannot spend his life with dog and gun. 
I do not care that my one son should sleep 
Merely for keeping him in breath, and wake 
Only to ride to cover." 

Not the less 
The grandsire pondered. " Ay, the boy must work 
Or SPEND ; and I must let him spend ; just stay 
Awhile with us, and then from time to time 
Have leave to be away with those fine folk 
With whom, these many years, at school, and now, 
During his sojourn in the foreign towns, 
He has been made familiar." Thus a inonth 



47 



48 



LAU RANGE. 



Went by. They liked the stirring ways of youth, 

The quick elastic step, and joyous mind, 

Ever expectant of it knew not what, 

But something higher than has e'er been born 

Of easy slumber and sweet competence. 

And as for him, — the while they thought and thought 

A comfortable instinct let him know 

How they had waited for him, to complete 

And give a meaning to their lives ; and still 

At home, but with a sense of newness there, 

And frank and fresh as in the school-boy days, 

He oft — invading of his father's haunts. 

The study where he passed the silent morn — 

Would sit, devouring with a greedy joy 

The piled-up books, uncut as yet ; or wake 

To guide with him by night the tube, and search. 

Ay, think to find new stars ; then risen betimes, 

Would ride about the farm, and list the talk 

Of his hale grandsire. 

But a day came round. 
When, after peering in his mother's room. 
Shaded and shuttered from the light, he oped 
A door, and found the rosy grandmother 
Ensconced and happy in her special pride. 
Her storeroom. vShe was corking syrups rare. 
And fruits all sparkling in a crystal coat. 
Here after choice of certain cates well known. 
He, sitting on her bacon-chest at ease. 
Sang as he watched her, till right suddenly, 



LAURAi\CE. ^g 

As if a new thought came, " Goody," quoth he, 
" What, think you, do they want to do with me ? 
What have they planned for me that 1 should do ? " 

" Do, laddie ! " quoth she faltering, half in tears ; 
"Are you not happy with us, not content? 
Why would ye go away ? There is no need 
That ye should DO at all. O, bide at home. 
Have we not plenty ? " 

" Even so," he said ; 
" I did not wish to go." 

'• Nay, then," quoth she, 
" Be idle ; let me see your blessed face. 
What, is the horse your father chose for you 
Not to your mind ? He is ? Well, well, remain ; 
Do as you will, so you but do it here. 
You shall not want for money." 

But, his arms 
Folding, he sat and twisted up his mouth 
With comical discomfiture. 

" What, then," 
She sighed, " what is it, child, that you would like ? " 
" Why," said he, •' farming." 

And she looked at him. 
Fond, foolish woman that she was, to find 
Some fitness in the worker for the work, 
And she found none. A certain grace there was 
Of movement, and a beauty in the face, 
Sun-browned and healthful beauty that had come 
3 



50 



LAURANCE. 



From his grave father ; and she thought, " Good lack, 

A farmer ! he is fitter for a duke. 

He walks ; why, how he walks ! if I should meet 

One like him, whom I knew not, I should ask. 

And who may that be ? " So the foolish thought 

Found words. Quoth she, half laughing, half ashamed 

" We planned to make of you — a gentleman." 

And with engagnig sweet audacity 

She thought it nothing less, — he, looking up. 

With a smile in his blue eyes, replied to her, 

" And hav'n't you done it ? " Quoth she, lovingly, 

" I think we have, laddie ; I think we have." 

" Then," quoth he, " I may do what best I like ; 

It makes no matter. Goody, you were wise 

To help me in it, and to let me farm ; 

I think of getting into mischief eUe ! " 

" No ! do ye, laddie ? " quoth the dame, and laughed. 

" But ask my grandfather," the youth went on, 

" To let me have the farm he bought last year. 

The little one, to manage. I like land ; 

I want some." And she, womanlike, gave way 

Convinced ; and promised, and made good her wojtI, 

And that same night upon the matter spoke, 

In presence of the father and the son. 

" Roger," quoth she, " our Laurancc wants to fan:i ; 
I think he might do worse." The father sat 
Mute but right glad. The grandson breaki'.:g i:i 



LAURANCE. 5 1 

Set all his wish and his ambition forth ; 

But cunningly the old man hid his joy, 

And made conditions with a faint demur. 

Then pausing, " Let your father speak," quoth he ; 

" I am content if he is " : at his word 

The parson took him, ay, and, parson like, 

Put a rehgious meaning in the work, 

Man's earliest work, and wished his son God speed. 



II. 



Thus all were satisfied, and day by day. 

For two sweet years a happy course was theirs ; 

Happy, but yet the fortunate, the young 

Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his strife, — 

A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen 

Of sight and hearing to the delicate 

Beauty and music of an altered world ; 

Began to walk in that mysterious light 

Which doth reveal and yet transform ; which gives 

Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and hfe, 

Intenser meaning ; in disquieting 

Lifts up ; a shining light : men call it Love. 

Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he loved ; 
A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere. 
She never turned from him with sweet caprice, 
Nor changing moved his soul to troublous hope. 
Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes low, 



52 



LAURA NCE. 



But excellent in youthful grace came up ; 
And ere his words were ready, passing on, 
Had left him all a- tremble ; yet made sure 
That by her own true will, and fixed intent, 
She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit 
He knew she did not love him, yet so long 
As of a rival unaware, he dwelt 
All in the present, without fear, or hope, 
Enthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of love, 
And could not get his head above its wave 
To reach the far horizon, or to mark 
Whereto it drifted him. 

So long, so long ; 
Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate. 
Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale 
All in the tolling out of noon. 

'T was thus : 
Snow-time was come ; it had been snowing hard ; 
Across the churchyard path he walked ; the clock 
Began to strike, and, as he passed the porch. 
Half turning, through a sense that came to him 
As of some presence in it, he beheld 
His love, and she had come for shelter there ; 
And all her face was fair with rosy bloom, 
The blush of happiness ; and one held up 
Her ungloved hand in both his own, and stooped 
Toward it, sitting by her. O her eyes 
Were full of peace and tender light : they looked 
One moment in the ungraced lover's face 



LAURANCE. 

While he was passing in the snow ; and he 
Received the story, while he raised his hat 
Retiring. Then the clock left off to strike, 
And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on ; 
And in a certain way he marked the snow, 
And walked, and came upon the open heath ; 
And in a certain way he marked the cold. 
And walked as one that had no starting-place 
Might walk, but not to any certain goal. 

And he strode on toward a hollow part. 
Where from the hillside gravel had been dug. 
And he was conscious of a cry, and went 
Dulled in his sense, as though he heard it not ; 
Till a small farmhouse drudge, a half-grown girl, 
Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay 
Against the bushes, crying, '' God ! O God, 
O my good God, He sends us help at last." 

Then looking hard upon her, came to him 
The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth 
Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering failed, 
And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child 
That looked on him with wondering, v.dstful eyes. 

" I thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears 
" Kind sir, kind sir," and she held out the child, 
As praying him to take it ; and he did ; 
And gave to her the shawl, and swathed his charge 



53 



54 



LAU RANGE. 



In the foldings of his plaid ; and when it thrust 

Its small round face against his breast, and felt 

With small red hands for warmth, — unbearable 

Pains of great pity rent his straitened heart. 

For the poor upland dwellers had been out 

Since morning dawn, at early milking- time, 

Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now, 

Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the cold, 

Hardly prevailed his arm to drag her on, 

That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child 

Had motherly cared to shield. So toiling through 

The great white storm coming, and coming yet, 

And coming till the world confounded sat 

With all her fair familiar features gone, 

The mountains muffled in an eddying swirl. 

He led or bore them, and the little one 

Peered from her shelter, pleased ; but oft would mourn 

The elder, " They will beat me : O my can, 

I left my can of milk upon the moor. 

And he compared her trouble with his own. 

And had no heart to speak. And yet 't was keen ; 

It filled her to the putting down of pain 

And hunger, — what could his do more ? 

He brought 
The children to their home, and suddenly 
Regained himself, and wondering at himself, 
That he had borne, and yet been dumb so long, 
The weary wailing of the girl : he paid 
Money to buy her pardon \ heard them say, 



LA URANCE. 

" Peace, we have feared for you ; forget the milk, 
It is no matter ! " and went forth again 
And waded in the snow, and quietly- 
Considered in his patience what to do 
With all the dull remainder of his days. 

With dusk he was at home, and felt it good 

To hear his kindred talking, for it broke 

A mocking, endless echo in his soul, 

" It is no matter ! " and he could not choose 

But mutter, though the weariness o'ercame 

His spirit, " Peace, it is no matter ; peace, 

It is no matter ! " For he felt that all 

Was as it had been, and his father's heart 

Was easy, knowing not how that same day 

Hope with her tender colors and delight 

(He should not care to have him know) were dead ; 

Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear. 

It was no matter. And he heard them talk 

Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields, 

And profitable markets. 

All for him 
Their plans, and yet the echoes swarmed and swam 
About his head, whenever there was pause ; 
" It is no matter ! " And his greater self 
Arose in him and fought. " It matters much, 
It matters all to these, that not to-day 
Nor ever they should know it. I will hide 
The wound ; ay, hide it with a sleepless care. 



55 



56 LAURANCE. 

What ! shall I make these three to drink of rue, 
Because my cup is bitter ? " And he thrust 
Himself in thought away, and made his ears 
Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem 
Another, to make answer, when they spoke, 
As there had been no snowstorm, and no porch, 
And no despair. 

So this went on awhile 
Until the snow had melted from the wold, 
And he, one noonday, wandering up a lane, 
Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. 
Then, even to trembling he was moved : his speech 
Faltered ; but when the common kindly words , 
Of greeting were all said, and she passed on. 
He could not bear her sweetness and his pain. 
"Muriel!" he cried; and when she heard her name, 
She turned. " You know I love you," he broke out : 
She answered " Yes," and sighed. 

" O pardon me, 
Pardon me," quoth the lover ; " let me rest 
In certainty, and hear it from your mouth : 
Is he with whom I saw you once of late 
To call you wife ? " "I hope so," she replied ; 
And over all her face the rose-bloom came. 
As thinking on that other, unaware 
Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on her, 
Standing to answer him, with lovely shame, 
Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, 
A quickened sense of his great impotence 



LA URANCE. 

To drive away the doom got hold on him ; 
He set his teeth to force the unbearable 
Misery back, his wide-awakened eyes 
Flashed as with flame. 

And she, all overawed 
And mastered by his manhood, waited yet. 
And trembled at the deep she could not sound ; 
A passionate nature in a storm ; a heart 
Wild with a mortal pain, and in the grasp 
Of an immortal love. 

'' Farewell/' he said, 
Recovering words, and when she gave her hand, 
" My thanks for your good candor ; for I feel 
That it has cost you something." Then, the blush 
Yet on her face, she said : " It was your due : 
But keep this matter from your friends and kin. 
We would not have it known." Then cold and proud. 
Because there leaped from under his straight lids. 
And instantly was veiled, a keen surprise, — 
" He wills it, and I therefore think it well." 
Thereon they parted ; but from that time forth, 
Whether they met on festal eve, in field. 
Or at the church, she ever bore herself 
Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain, 
The disapproval hastily betrayed 
And quickly hidden hurt her. " 'T was a grace," 
She thought, " to tell this man the thing he asked, 
And he rewards me with surprise. I like 
No one's surprise, and least of all bestowed 
3^ 



57 



^3 LAU RANGE. 

Where he oestowed it." 

But the spring came on : 
Looking to wed in April all her thoughts 
Grew loving ; she would fain the world had waxed 
More happy with her happiness, and oft 
Walking among the flowery woods she felt 
Their loveliness reach down into her heart, 
And knew with them the ecstasies of growth, 
The rapture that was satisfied with light, 
The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite 
Expansion, through the lovely longed-for spring. 

And as for him, — (Some narrow hearts there are 

That suffer blight when that they fed upon 

As something to complete their being fails. 

And they retire into their holds and pine. 

And long restrained grow stern. But some there are 

That in a sacred want and hunger rise, 

And draw the misery home and live with it. 

And excellent in honor wait, and will 

That somewhat good should yet be found in it, 

Else wherefore were they born ?), — and as for him. 

He loved her, but his peace and welfare made 

The sunshine of three lives. The cheerful grange 

Threw open wide its hospitable doors 

And drew in guests for him. The garden flowers. 

Sweet budding wonders, all were set for him. 

In him the eyes at home were satisfied, 

And if he did but laugh the ear approved. 



LAURANCE. ^^ 

What then ? He dwelt among them as of old, 
And taught his mouth to smile. 

And time went on, 
Till on a morning, when the perfect spring 
Rested among her leaves, he journeying home 
After short sojourn in a neighboring town. 
Stopped at the little station on the line 
That ran between his woods ; a lonely place 
And quiet, and a woman and a child 
Got out. He noted them, but walking on 
Quickly, went back into the wood, impelled 
By hope, for, passing, he had seen his love, 
And she was sitting on a rustic seat 
That overlooked the line, and he desired 
With longing indescribable to look 
Upon her face again. And he drew near. 
She was right happy ; she was waiting there. 
He felt that she was waiting for her lord. 
She cared no whit if Lau ranee went or stayed, 
But answered when he spoke, and dropped her cheek 
In her fair hand. 

And he, not able yet 
To force himself away, and never more 
Behold her, gathered blossom, primrose flowers, 
And wild anemone, for many a clump 
Grew all about him, and the hazel rods 
Were nodding with their catkins. But he heard 
The stopping train, and felt that he must go; 
His time was come. There was nonsfht else to do 



6o LA URANCE. 

Or hope for. With the blossom he drew near, 

And would have had her take it from his hand ; 

But she, half lost in thought, held out her own, 

And then remembering him and his long love, 

She said, " I thank you ; pray you now forget. 

Forget me, Laurance," and her lovely eyes 

Softened ; but he was dumb, till through the trees 

Suddenly broke upon their quietude 

The woman and her child. And Muriel said, 

" What will you ? " She made answer quick and keen, 

" Your name, my lady ; 't is your name I want, 

Tell me your name." Not startled, not displeased, 

But with a musing sweetness on her mouth, 

As if considering in how short a while 

It would be changed, she lifted up her face 

And gave it, and the little child drew near 

And pulled her gown, and prayed her for the flowers. 

Then Laurance, not content to leave them so, 

Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke, — 

" Your errand with this lady ? " — " And your right 

To ask it ? " she broke out with sudden heat 

And passion : " What is that to you ! Poor child ! 

Madam ! " And Muriel lifted up her face 

And looked, — they looked into each other's eyes. 



" That man who comes," the clear-voiced woman cried, 
" That man with whom you think to wed so soon, 
You must not heed him. What ! the world is full 



LAURAACE. 5 1 

Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows, 
Better than he, — that I should say it ! , — far 
Better." And down her face the large tears ran, 
And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked up. 
Taking a terrible meaning from her words ; 
And Laurance stared about him half in doubt 
If this were real, for all things were so blithe. 
And soft air tossed the little flowers about ; 
The child was singing, and the blackbitds piped, 
Glad in fair sunshine. And the women both 
Were quiet, gazing in each other's eyes. 

He found his voice, and spoke : " This is not well. 

Though whom you speak of should have done you wrong ; 

A man that could desert and plan to wed 

Will not his purpose yield to God and right, 

Only to law. You, whom I pity po much, 

If you be come this day to urge a claim, 

You will not tell me that your claim will hold ; 

'T is only, if I read aright, the old, 

Sorrowful, hateful story ! " 

Muriel sighed, 
With a dull patience that he marvelled at, 
" Be plain with me. I know not what to think. 
Unless you are his wife. Are you his wife ? 
Be plain with me." And all too quietly. 
With running down of^tears, the answer came, 
" Ay, madam, ay ! tlie worse for him and me." 
Then Muriel heard her lover's foot anear. 



62 LA URANCE. 

And cried upon him with a bitter cry, 

Sharp and despairing. And those two stood back, 

With such affright, and violent anger stirred 

He broke from out the tliicket to her side, 

Not knowing. But, her hands before her face, 

She sat ; and, stepping close, that woman came 

And faced liim. Then said Muriel, " O my heart, 

Herbert! " — and he was dumb, and ground his teeth. 

And lifted up his hand and looked at it, 

And at the woman ; but a man was there 

Who whirled her from her place, and thrust himself 

Between them ; he was strong, — a stalwart man : 

And Herbert thinking on it, knew his name. 

" What good," quoth he, " thou^jh you and I should strive 

And wrestle all this April day ? A word, 

And not a blow, is what these women want: 

Master yourself, and say it." But he, weak 

With passion and great anguisii, flung himself 

Upon the seat and cried, " O lost, my love ! 

O Muriel, Muriel ! " And the wotnan spoke, 

" Sir, 't was an evil day you wed with me ; 

And you were young ; I know it, sir, right well. 

Sir, I have worked ; I have not troubled you, 

Not for myself, nor for your child. I know 

We are not equal." " Hold ! " he cried ; " have done ; 

Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. 

Get from me ! Ay, my wife, my wife, indeed I 

All 's done. You hear it, Muriel ; if you can, 

O sweet, forgive me." 



LAU RANGE. 63 

Then the woman moved 
Slowly away : her little singing child 
Went in her wake : and Muriel dropped her hands, 
And sat before these two that loved her so, 
Mute and unheeding. There were angry words. 
She knew, but yet she could not hear the words ; 
And afterwards the man she loved stooped down 
And kissed her forehead once, and then withdrew 
To look at her, and with a gesture pray 
Her pardon. And she tried to speak, but failed. 
And presently, and soon, O, — he was gone. 

She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone. 
Remained beside her ; and she put her hand 
Before her face again, and Jij^rward 
She heard a voice, as if a long way off, 
Some one entreated, but she could not heed. 
Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised 
Her passive from her seat. So then she knew 
That he would have her go with him, go home, — 
It was not far to go, — a dreary home. 
A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage high, 
Had in her youth, and for a place and home, 
Married the stern old rector ; and the girl 
Dwelt with them : she was orphaned, — had no kin 
Nearer than they. And Laurance brought her in. 
And spared to her the tiling of this woe. 
He sought her kindred where they sat apart. 
And laid before them all the cruel thino;. 



64 LAURANCE. 

As he had seen it. After, he retired : 

And restless, and not master of himself, 

He day and night haunted the rectory lanes ; 

And all things, even to the spreading out 

Of leaves, their flickering shadows on the ground, 

Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or peace 

And glory and great light on mountain heads, — 

All things were leagued against him, — ministered 

By likeness or by contrast to his love. 

But what was that to Muriel, though her peace 
He would have purchased for her with all prayers. 
And costly, passionate, despairing tears ? 
O what to her that he should find it worse 
To bear her life's undoing i^n his own ? 

She let him see her, and she made no moan, 

But talked full calmly of indifferent things. 

Which when he heard, and marked the faded eyes 

And lovely wasted cheek, he started up 

With " This I cannot bear ! " and shamed to feel 

His manhood giving way, and utterly 

vSubdued by her sweet patience and his pain, 

Made haste and from the window sprang, and paced, 

BattHng and chiding with himself, the maze. 

She suffered, and he could not make her well 
For all his loving ; — he was naught to her. 
xVnd now his pa-sionnte nature, set astir, 



LA URANCE. 6^ 

Fought with the pain that could not be endured ; 
And like a wild thing suddenly aware 
That it is caged, which flings and bruises all 
Its body at the bars, he rose, and raged 
Against the misery : then he made all worse 
With tears. But when he came to her again, 
Willing to talk as they had talked before, 
She sighed, and said, with that strange quietness, 
" I know you have been crying " : and she bent 
Her own fair head and wept. 

She felt the cold — 
The freezing cold that deadened all her life — 
Give way a little ; for this passionate 
Sorrow, and all for her, relieved her heart. 
And brought some natural warmth, some natural tears. 



III. 



And after that, though oft he sought her door, 

He might not see her. First they said to him, 

" She is not well " ; and afterwards, " Her wish 

Is ever to be quiet." Then in haste 

They took her from the place, because so fast 

She faded. As for liim, though youth and strength 

Can bear the weight as of a world, at last 

The burden of it tells, — he heard it said. 

When autumn came, " The poor sweet thing will die: 

That ^hock was mortal." And he cared no more 

To hide, if yet he could have hidden, the blight 



ee LAURANCE. 

That was laying waste his heart. He journeyed south 
To Devon, where she dwelt with other kin, 
Good, kindly women ; and he wrote to thera, 
Praying that he might see her ere she died. 

So in her patience she permitted him 

To be about her, for it eased his heart ; 

And as for her that was to die so soon, 

What did it signify ? She let him weep 

Some passionate tears beside her couch, she spoke 

Pitying words, and then they made him go. 

It was enough they said, her time was short. 

And he had seen her. He had seen, and felt 

The bitterness of death ; but he went home, 

Being satisfied in that great longing now. 

And able to endure what might befall. 

And Muriel lay, and faded with the year ; 
She lay at the door of death, that opened not 
To take her in ; for when the days once more 
Began a little to increase, she felr, — 
And it was sweet to her, she was so young, — 
She felt a longing for the time of flowers, 
And dreamed that she was walking in that wood 
With her two feet among the primroses. 

Then when the violet opened, she rose up 
And walked : the tender leaf and tender light 
Did solace her ; but she was white and wan. 



LA URANCE. 6/ 

The shadow of that Muriel, in the wood 
Who listened to those deadly words. 

And now 
Empurpled seas began to blush and bloom, 
Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder rose 
In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped, 
Her wealth about her feet, and there it lay, 
And drifted not at all. The hlac spread 
Odorous essence round her ; and full oft, 
When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer, 
She, faded, sat among the Maytide bloom, 
And with a reverent quiet in her soul, 
Took back — it was His will — her time, and sat 
Learning again to live. 

Thus as she sat , 

Upon a day, she was aware of one 
Who at a distance marked her. This again 
Another day, and she was vexed, for yet 
She longed for quiet ; but she heard a foot 
Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees. 
" Laurance ! " And all impatient of unrest 
And strife, ay, even of the sight of them, 
When he drew near, with tired, tired lips, 
As if her soul upbraided him, she said, 
" Why have you done this thing ? " He answered her, 
" I am not always master in the fight : 
I could not help it." 

" What ! " she sighed, " not yet ! 
O, I am sorry " ; and she talked to him 



68 LAURANCE, 

As one who looked to live, imploring hira, — 
" Try to forget me. Let your fancy dwell 
Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so long ; 
It wearies me to think of this your love. 
Forget me ! " 

He made answer, " I will try : 
The task will take me all my life to learn, 
Or were it learned, I know not how to live ; 
This pain is part of life and being now, — 
It is myself; but yet — but I will try." 
Then she spoke friendly to him, — of his home, 
His father, and the old, brave, loving folk ; 
She bade him think of them. And not her words, 
But having seen her, satisfied his heart. 
He left her, and went home to live his life, 
And all the summer heard it said of her, 
" Yet, she grows stronger " ; but when autumn came 
Again she drooped. 

A bitter thing it is 
To lose at once the lover and the love ; 
For who receiveth not may yet keep life 
In the spirit with bestowal. But for her, 
This Muriel, all was gone. The man she loved, 
Not only from her present had withdrawn. 
But from her past, and there was no such man, 
There never had been. 

He was not as one 
Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and hold* 
The winged fluttering stranger to his breast, 



LAURANCE. 59 

Till, after transient stay, all unaware 

It leaves him : it has flown. No ; this may live 

In memory, — loved till death. He was not vile ; 

For who by choice would part with that pure bird, 

And lose the exaltation of its song ? 

He had not strength of will to keep it fast, 

Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life 

Of thought to make the echo sound for him 

After the song was done. Pity that man : 

His music is all flown, and he forgets 

The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks 

'T was no great matter. But he was not vile, 

Only a thing to pity most in man, 

Weak, — only poor, and, if he knew it, undone. 

But Herbert ! When she mused on it, her soul 

Would fain have hidden him forevermore, 

Even from herself: so pure of speech, so frank, 

So full of household kindness. Ah, so good 

And true ! A little, she had sometimes thought, 

Despondent for himself, but strong of faith 

In God, and faith in her, this man had seemed. 

Ay, he was gone ! and she whom he had wed, 
As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, was sad. 
And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send, 
From her small store, money to help her need. 
With, " Pray you keep it secret." Then the whole 
Of the cruel tale was told. 

What more ? She died. 



70 



LA URANCE, 



Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly, 
Wrote of tiie end. " Our sister fain had seen 
Her husband ; prayed him sore to come. But no. 
And then she prayed him that he would forgive, 
Madam, her breaking of the truth to you. 
Dear madam, he was angry, yet we think 
He might have let her see, before she died. 
The words she wanted, but he did not write 
Till she was gone — ' I neither can forgive. 
Nor would I if I could.' '* 

" Patience, my heart ! 
And this, then, is the man I loved ! " 

But yet 
He sought a lower level, for he wrote 
Telling the story with ^ different hue. 
Telling of freedom. He desired to come, 
" For now," said he, " O love, may all be well.** 
And she rose up against it in her soul. 
For she despised him. And with passionate tears 
Of shame,*she wrote, and only wrote these words, — 
"Herbert, I will not see you." 

Then she drooped 
Again ; it is so bitter to despise ; 

And all her strength, when autumn leaves down dropped. 
Fell from her. " Ah ! " she thought, " I rose up once, 
I cannot rise up now ; here is the end." 
And all her kinsfolk thought, " It is the end." 

But when that other heard, "It is the end," 



LAURANCE. 

His heart was sick, and he, as by a power 
Far stronger than himself, was driven to her. 
Reason rebelled against it, but his will^ 
Required it of him with a craving strong 
As life, and passionate though hopeless pain. 

She, when she saw his face, considered him 

Full quietly, let all excuses pass 

Not answered, and considered yet again. 

" He had heard that she was sick ; what could he do 
But come, and ask her pardon that he came ? " 
What could he do, indeed ? — a weak white girl 
Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand ; 
His youth, and power, and majesty were hers, 
And not his own. 

She looked, and pitied him, 
Then spoke : " He loves me with a love that lasts. 
Ah, me ! that I might get away from it, 
Or, better, hear it said that love is not, 
And then I could have rest. My time is short, 
I think, so short." And roused against himself 
In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom 
Her to disquiet whom he loved ; ay, her 
For whom he would have given all his rest, 
If there were any left to give ; he took 
Her words up bravely, promising once more 
Absence, and praying pardon ; but some tears 
Dropped quietly upon her cheek. 



71 



72 



LA URANCE. 

" Remain," 
She said, " for there is something to be told, 
Some words J;hat you must hear. 

" And first hear this 
God has been good to me ; you must not think 
That I despair. There is a quiet time 
Like evening in my soul. I have no heart. 
For cruel Herbert killed it long ago, 
And death strides on. Sit, then, and give your mind 
To listen, and your eyes to look at me. 
Look at my face, Laurance, how white it is ; 
Look at my hand, — my beauty is all gone." 
And Laurance lifted up his eyes ; he looked. 
But answered, from their deeps that held no doubt, 
Far otherwise than she had willed, — they said, 
" Lovelier than ever." 

Yet her w^ords went on. 
Cold and so quiet, *' I have suffered much, 
And I would fain that none who care for me 
Should suffer a like pang that I can spare. 
Therefore," said she, and not at all could blush, 
"I have brought my mind of late to think of this: 
That since your life is spoilt (not willingly. 
My God, not willingly by me), 't were well 
To give you choice of griefs. 

"Were it not best 
To weep for a dead love, and afterwards 
Be comforted the sooner, that she died 
Remote, and left not in your house and life 



LA URANCE. 



73 



Aught to remind you ? That indeed were best. 
But were it best to weep for a dead wife, 
And let the sorrow spend and satisfy 
Itself with all expression, and so end ? 
I think not so ; but if for you 't is best, 
Then, — do not answer with too sudden words: 
It matters much to you ; not much, not much 
To me, — then truly I will die your wife ; 
I will marry you." 

What was he like to say. 
But, overcome with love and tears, to choose 
The keener sorrow, — take it to his heart. 
Cherish it, make it part of him, and watch 
Those eyes that were his light till they should close ? 

He answered her with eager, faltering words, 

"I choose, — my heart is yours, — die in my arms." 

But was it well ? Truly, at first, for him 

It was not well : he saw her fade, and cried, 

" When may this be ? " She answered, " When you will," 

And cared not much, for very faint she grew. 

Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she thought, 

" If I could slip away before the ring 

Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot # 

For both, — a blessed thing for him, and me." 

But it was not so ; for the day had come, — 
Was over : days and montiis had come, and Death, — 
4. 



74' LAURANCE. 

Within whose shadow she had lain, which made 

Earth and its loves, and even its bitterness, 

Indifferent, — Death withdrew himself, and life 

Woke up, and found that it was folded fast. 

Drawn to another life forevermore. 

O, what a waking ! After it there came 

Great silence. She got up once more, in spring, 

And walked, but not alone, among the flowers. 

She thought within herself, " What have I done ? 

How shall I do the rest ? " And he, who felt 

Her inmost thought, was silent even as she. 

"What have we done?" she thought. But as for him, 

When she began to look him in the face. 

Considering, "Thus and thus his features are," 

For she had never thought on them before, 

She read their grave repose aright. She knew 

That in the stronghold of his heart, held back, 

Hidden reserves of measureless content 

Kept house with happy thought, for her sake mute. 

Most patient Muriel ! when he brought her home, 
She took the place they gave her, — strove to please 
His kin, and did not fail ; but yet thought on, 
"What have I done? how shall I do the rest? 
Ah ! 60 contented, Laurance, with this wife 
That loves you not, for all the stateliness 
And grandeur of your manhood, and the deeps 
In your blue eyes." And after that awhile 
She rested from such thinking, put it by 



LAURA NCE. 

And waited. She had thought on death before : 
But DO, this Muriel was not yet to die ; 
And when she saw her little tender^ babe, 
She felt how much the happy days of life 
Outweigh the sorrowful. A tiny thing. 
Whom when it slept the lovely mother nursed 
With reverent love, whom when it woke she fed 
And wondered at, and lost herself in long 
Rapture of watching, and contentment deep. 

Once while she sat, this babe upon her knee, 
Her husband and his father standing nigh, 
About to ride, the grandmother, all pride 
And consequence, so deep in learned talk 
Of infants, and their little ways and wiles. 
Broke off to say, " I never saw a babe 
So like its father." And the thought was new 
To Muriel ; she looked up, and when she looked, 
Her husband smiled. And she, the lovely bloom 
Flushing her face, would fain he had not known. 
Nor noticed her surprise. But he did know ; 
Yet there was pleasure in his smile, and love 
Tender and strong. He kissed her, kissed his babe, 
With " Goody, you are left in charge, take care " — 
"As if I needed telling," quoth the dame ; 
And they were gone. 

Then Muriel, lost in thonirht, 
Gazed ; and the grandmother, with open pride. 
Tended the lovely pair ; till Muriel said. 



75 



'je LAURANCE. 

"Is she so like ? Dear granny, get me now 
The picture that his father has " ; and soon 
The old woman put it in her hand. 

The wife, 
Considering it with deep and strange delight, 
Forgot for once her babe, and looked and learned. 

A mouth for mastery and manful work, 
A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes, 
A brow the harbor of grave thought, and hair 
Saxon of hue. She conned ; then blushed again, 
Remembering now, when she had looked on him, 
The sudden radiance of her husband's smile. 

But Muriel did not send the picture back ; 
She kept it ; while her beauty and her babe 
Flourished together, and in health and peace 
She lived. 

Her husband never said to her, 
" Love, are you happy ? " never said to her, 
" Sweet, do you love me ? " and at first, whene'er 
They rode together in the lanes, and paused. 
Stopping their horses, when the day was hot, 
In the shadow of a tree, to watch the clouds, 
Ruffled in drifting on the jagged rocks 
That topped the mountains, — when she sat by him, 
Withdrawn at even while the summer stars 
Came starting out of nothing, as new made, 
She felt a little trouble, and a wish 



LA URANCE. yy 

That he would yet keep silence, and he did. 
That one reserve he would not touch, but still 
Respected. 

Muriel grew more brave in time, 
And talked at ease, and felt disquietude 
Fade. And another child was given to her. 

"Now we shall do," the old great-grandsire cried, 
"For this is the right sort, a boy." "Fie, fie," 
Quoth the good dame ; but never heed you, love. 
He thinks them both as right as right can be." 

But Laurance went from home, ere yet the boy 
Was three weeks old. It fretted him to go. 
But yet he said, " I must " : and she was left 
Much with the kindly dame, whose gentle care 
Was like a mother's ; and the two could talk 
Sweetly, for all the difference in their years. 

But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish 

That she had known why Laurance left her thus. 

"Ay, love," the dame made answer; "for he said, 

■Goody,' before he left, ' if Muriel ask 

No question, tell her naught ; but if she let 

Any disquietude appear to you, 

Say what you know.'" "What?" Muriel said, and 

laughed, 
" I ask, then." 

" Child, it is that your old love, 



78 



LAURANCE. 



Some two months past, was here. Nay, never start : 
He 's gone. He came, our Laurance met him near ; 
He said that he was going over seas, 
*And might I see your wife this only once, 
And get her pardon ? ' " 

" Mercy ! " Muriel cried, 
" But Laurance does not wish it ? " 

" Nay, now, nay," 
Quoth the good dame. 

" I cannot," Muriel cried ; 
"He does not, surely, think I should." 

" Not he," 
The kind old woman said, right soothingly. 
" Does not he ever know, love, ever do 
What you like best?" 

And Muriel, trembling yet, 
Agreed. " I heard him say," the dame went on, 
"For I was with liim when they met that day, 
*It would not be agreeable to my wife.'" 

Then Muriel, pondering, — " And he said no more? 

You think he did not add, ' nor to myself? ' " 

And with her soft, calm, inward voice, the dame 

Unruffled answered, " No, sweet heart, not he : 

What ne^d he care ? " " And why not ? " Muriel cried, 

Longing to hear the answer. " 0, he knows. 

He knows, love, very well " : with tlmt she smiled. 

"Bless your fair face, you have not really thought 

He did not know you loved him ? " 



LAURANCE. 



79 



Muriel said, 

"He never told me, goody, that he knew." 

" Wellj" quoth the dame, " but it may chance, my dear, 

That he thinks best to let old troubles sleep : 

Why need to rouse them ? You are happy, surQ ? 

But if one asks, ' Art happy ? ' why, it sets j 

The thoughts a-working. No, say I, let love, 

Let peace and happy folk alone. 

" He said, 
*It would not be agreeable to my wife.' 
And he went on to add, in course of time 
That he would ask you, when it suited you, 
To write a few kind words." 

" Yes," Muriel said, 
"I can do that." 

" So Laurance went, you see," 
The soft voice added, '' to take down that child. 
Laurance had written oft about the child, 
And now, at last, the father made it known 
He could not take him. He has lost, they say. 
His money, with much gambling ; now he wants 
To lead a good, true, working life. He wrote. 
And let this so be seen, that Laurance went 
And took the child, and took the money down 
To pay." 

And Muriel found her talking sweet. 
And asked once more, the rather that she longed 
To speak again of Laurance, " And you think 
He knows I love him ? " 



So LAURANCE. 

" Ay, good sooth, he knows 
No fear ; but he is like his father, love. 
His father never asked my pretty child 
One prying question ; took her as she was ; 
Trusted her ; she has told me so : he knew 
A woman's nature. Laurance is the same. 
He knows you love him ; but he will not speak ; 
No, never. Some men are such gentlemen ! " 



SONGS 



OF 



THE NIGHT WATCHES 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES, 

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SONG OF EVENING, AND A 
CONCLUDING SONG OF THE EARLY DAY. 



INTRODUCTORY. 
{Old English Manner.) 

APPRENTICED. 




OME out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet 
hoot, the owlet hoot ; 
Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim 
behind the tree, O ! 
The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest 
lass, and sweetest lass ; 
Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft 
with me, O ! " 

" My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, 
and drops her reel ; 
My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can 
be, O! 



84 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere 
light wax dim ; 
How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, with 
thee, 0?" 

" And must ye bide, yet waiting 's long, and love is strong, 
and love is strong ; 
And O ! had I but served the time, that takes so long 
to flee, O ! 
And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in white, 
wast all in white, 
And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and 
thee, O." 



THE FIRST WATCH. 
TIRED. 



O, I WOULD tell you *nore, but I am tired ; 

For I have longed, and I have had my will ; 
I pleaded in my spirit, I desired : 

" Ah ! let me only see him, and be still 
All my days after." 

Rock, and rock, and rock, 
Over the falling, rising watery world, 

Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main ; 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 85 

The chirping land-birds follow flock on flock 

To light on a warmer plain. 
White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled, 

Fall over in harmless play, 

As these do far away ; 
Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea, 
All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee. 



II. 

I am so tired, 
If I would comfort me, I know not how, 

For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired, 
And I have nothing left to long for now. 

Nothing at all. And did I wait for thee, 
' Often and often, while the light grew dim. 
And through the lilac branches I could see. 
Under a saffron sky, the purple rim 
O' the heaving moorland ? Ay. And then would float 
Up from behind as it were a golden boat. 
Freighted with fancies, all o' the wonder of life, 

Love — such a slender moon, going up and up. 
Waxing so fast from night to night, 
And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright. 

Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup. 
And hold to my two Hps life's best of wine. 
Most beautiful crescent moon. 
Ship of the sky ! 



S6 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

Across the unfurrowed reaches saihng high. 

Methought that it would come my way full soon, 
Laden with blessings that were all, all mine, — 
A golden ship, with balm and spiceries rife, 
That ere its day was done should hear thee call me wife. 



III. 

All over ! the celestial sign hath failed ; 

The orange flower-bud shuts ; the ship hath sailed, 

And sunk behind the long low-lying hills. 
The love that fed on daily kisses dieth ; 
The love kept warm by nearness, lieth 
Wounded and wan ; 

The love hope nourished bitter tears distils, 
And faints with naught to feed upon. 
Only there stirreth very deep below 
The hidden beating slow, 

And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath 
Of the love that conquers death. 

IV. 

Had we not loved full long, and lost all fear, 

My ever, my only dear ? 

Yes ; and I saw thee start upon thy way. 

So sure that we should meet 

Upon our trystiug-day. 
And even absence then to me was sweet. 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 8/ 

Because it brought me time to brood •• 

Upon thy dearness in the solitude. 
But ah ! to stay, and stay, 
And let that moon of April wane itself away, 

And let the lovely May 
Make ready all her buds for June ; 
And let the glossy finch forego her tune 
That she brought with her in the spring, 
And never more, I think, to me can sing ; 
And then to lead thee home another bride, 

In the sultry summertide. 
And all forget me save for shame full sore. 
That made thee pray me, absent, " See my face no more." 



O hard, most hard ! But while my fretted heart 
Shut out, shut down, and full of pain, 
Sobbed to itself apart. 
Ached to itself in vain. 
One came who loveth me 

As I love thee 

And let my God remember him for this. 
As I do hope He will forget thy kiss, 
Nor visit on thy stately head 
Aught that thy mouth hath sworn, or thy two eyes have 

said 

He came, and it was dark. He came, and sighed 
Because he knew the sorrow, — whispering low. 



88 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

And%fast, and thick, as one that speaks by rote : 
" The vessel lieth in the river reach, 

A mile above the beach. 
And she will sail at the turning o' the tide." 

He said, " I have a boat, 

And were it good to go, 
And unbeholden in the vessel's wake 
Look on the man thou lovedst, and forgive, 
As he embarks, a shamefaced fugitive. 
Come, then, with me." 



VI. 

O, how he sighed ! The little stars did wink. 
And it was very dark. I gave my hand, — 
He led me out across the pasture land. 
And through the narrow croft, 
Down to the river's brink. 
When thou wast full in spring, thou little sleepy thing. 
The yellow flags that broidered thee would stand 
Up to their chins in water, and full oft 
We pulled them and the other shining flowers, 

That all are gone to-day : 
We two, that had so many things to say. 
So many hopes to render clear : 
And they are all gone after thee, my dear, — 
Gone after those sweet hours. 
That tender light, that balmy rain ; 
Gone " as a wind that passeth away. 
And Cometh not again." 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 89 

VII. 

" I only saw the stars, — I could not see 
The river, — and they seemed to lie 
As far below as the other stars were high. 

I trembled like a thing about to die : 
It was so awful 'neath the majesty 
Of that great crystal height, that overhung 
The blackness at our feet, 
Unseen to fleet and fleet 
The flocking stars among, 
And only hear the dipping of the oar, 
And the small wave's caressing of the darksome shore. 



VIII. 

Less real it was than any dream. 
Ah me ! to hear the bending willows shiver, 
As we shot quickly from the silent river, 

And felt the swaying and the flow 
That bore us down the deeper, wider stream, 

Whereto its nameless waters go : 
O ! I shall always, when I shut mine eyes, 

See that weird sight again ; 
The lights from anchored vessels hung ; 
The phantom moon, that sprung 
Suddenly up in dim and angry wise, 

From the rim o' the moaning main. 

And touched with elfin light 



90 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

The two long oars whereby we made our flight, 

Along the reaches of the night ; 
Then furrowed up a lowering cloud, 
Went in, and left us darker than before, 
To feel our way as the midnight watches wore, 
And lie in her lee, with mournful faces bowed, 
That should receive and bear with her away 
The brightest portion of my sunniest day, — 
The laughter of the land, the sweetness of the shore. 



IX. 



And I beheld thee : saw the lantern flash 

Down on thy face, when thou didst climb the side. 

And thou wert pale, pale as the patient bride 

That followed ; both a little sad, 
Leaving of home and kin. Thy courage glad, 

That once did bear thee on, 
That brow of thine had lost ; the fervor rash 
Of unforeboding youth thou hadst foregone. 
O, what a little moment, what a crumb 
Of comfort for a heart to feed upon ! 

And that was all its sum ; 

A glimpse, and not a meeting, — 

A drawing near by night. 
To sigh to thee an unacknowledged greeting. 
And all between the flashing of a light 

And its retreating. 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 91 

X. 



Then after, ere she spread her wafting wings, 
The ship, — and weighed her anchor to depart. 
We stole from her dark lee, Hke guilty things ; 

And there was silence in my heart. 
And silence in the upper and the nether deep. 

O sleep ! O sleep ! 
Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweep, 
Now I have nothing left, thy healing hand 
Over the lids that crave thy visits bland. 
Thou kind, thou comforting one : 
For I have seen his face, as I desired, 
And all my story is done. 
O, I am tired ! 



THE MIDDLE WATCH. 
I. 

I "WOKE in the night, and the darkness was heavy and 
deep: 
I had known it was dark in my sleep. 
And I rose and looked out. 
And the fathomless vault was all sparkling, set thick 

round about 
With the ancient inhabiters silent, and wheeling too far 



g2 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

For man's heart, like a voyaging frigate, to sail, where 
remote 
In the sheen of their glory they float, 
Or man's soul, like a bird, to fly near, of their beams to 



And dazed in their wake, 
Drink day that is born of a star. 
I murmured, " Remoteness and greatness, how deep you 
are set. 
How afar in the rim of the whole ; 
You know nothing of me, nor of man, nor of earth, 0, nor 
yet 
Of our light-bearer, — drawing the marvellous moons 
as they roll. 
Of our regent, the sun. 
I look on you trembling, and think, in the dark with my 

soul, 
" How small is our place 'mid the kingdoms and nations 
of God: 
1 These are greater than we, every one." 

And there falls a great fear, and a dread cometh over, 
that cries, 
" O my hope ! Is there any mistake ? 
Did He speak ? Did I hear ? Did I Hsten aright, if He 

spake ? 
Did I answer Him duly ? For surely I now am awake. 

If never I woke until now." 
And a light, baffling wind, that leads nowhither, plays on 
my brow. 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 93 

As a sleep, I must think on my day, of my path as un- 

trod. 
Or trodden in dreams, in a dreamland whose coasts are a 

doubt ; 
Whose countries recede from my thoughts, as they grope 
round about. 
And vanish, and tell me not how. 
Be kind to our darkness, O Fashioner, dwelling in light, 

And feeding the lamps of the sky ; 
Look down upon this one, and let it be sweet in Thy 
sight, 
I pray Thee, -to-night. 
O watch whom Thou madest to dwell on its soil, Thou 

Most High ! 
For this is a world full of sorrow (there may be but 

one) ; 
Keep watch o'er its dust, else Thy children for aye are 
undone. 
For this is a world where we die. 



II. 

With that, a still voice in my spirit that moved and that 
yearned, 
(There fell a great calm while it spake,) 
I had heard it erewhile, but the noises of life are so loud. 
That sometimes it dies in the cry of the street and the 
^ crowd : 

To the simple it cometh, — the child, or asleep, or awake, 



94 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

And they know not from whence ; of its nature the wise 

never learned 
By his wisdom ; its secret the worker ne'er earned 
By his toil ; and the rich among men never bought with 
his gold ; 
Nor the times of its visiting monarchs controlled, 

Nor the jester put down with his jeers 
(For it moves where it will), nor its season the 
aged discerned 
By thought, in the ripeness of years. 

elder than reason, and stronger than will ! 
A voice, when the dark world is still : 
Whence cometh it? Father Immortal, thou knowest! 

and we, — 
We are sure of that witness, that sense which is sent us 

of Thee ; 
For it moves, and it yearns in its fellowship mighty and 

dread. 
And let down to our hearts it is touched by the tears that 

we shed ; 
It is more than all meanings, and over all strife ; 
On its tongue are the laws of our life. 
And it counts up the times of the dead. 



in. 



I will fear you, O stars, never more. 
I have felt it ! Go on, while the world is asleep, 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 95 

Golden islands, fast moored in God's infinite deep. 
Hark, hark to the words of sweet fashion, tlie harpings of 



How they sang to Him, seer and saint, in the far away 
lands : 
" The heavens are the work of Thy hands ; 
They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure ; 
Yea, they all shall wax old, — 
But Thy throne is estabUshed, O God, and Thy years are 
made sure ; 
They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure, — 
They shall pass like a tale that is told." 



Doth He answer, the Ancient of Days ? 
Will He speak in the tongue and the fashion of 
men? 
(Hist ! hist ! while the heaven-hung multitudes sh ine in 

His praise. 
His language of old.) Nay, He spoke with them first ; 
it was then 
They lifted their eyes to His throne ; 
*' They shall call on Me, ' Tliou art our Father, our God, 

Thou alone ! ' 
For I made them, I led them in deserts and desolate 
ways ; 
I have found them a Ransom Divine ; 
^ have loved them with love everlasting, the children of 
men ; 
I swear by Myself, they are Mine." 



96 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES, 



THE MORNING WATCH. 



THE COMING IN OF THE "MERMAIDEN." 



THE moon is bleached as white as wool, 
And just dropping under ; 
Every star is gone but three, 

And they hang far asunder, — 
There 's a sea-ghost all in gray, 
A tall shape of wonder ! 

I am not satisfied with sleep, — 

The night is not ended. 
But look how the sea-ghost comes, 

With wan skirts extended, 
Stealing up in this weird hour, 

When li<rht and dark are blended. 



A vessel ! To the old pier end 
Her happy course she 's keeping ; 

I heard them name her yesterday : 
Some were pale with weeping ; 

Some with their heart-hunger sighed, 
She 's in, — and they are sleeping. 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. gy 

O ! now with fancied greetings blest, 

They comfort their long aching : 
The sea of sleep hath borne to them 

What would not come with waking, 
And the dreams shall most be true 

In their blissful breaking. 

The stars are gone, the rose-bloom comes, — 

No blush of maid is sweeter ; 
The red sun, half way out of bed. 

Shall be the first to greet her. 
None tell the news, yet sleepers wake, 

And rise, and run to meet her. 

Their lost they have, they hold ; from pain 

A keener bliss they borrow. 
How natural is joy, my heart ! 

How easy after sorrow ! 
For once, the best is come that hope 

Promised them " to-morrow." 



98 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

CONCLUDING SONG OF DAWN. 

(Old English Manner.) 

A MORN OF MAY. 

ALL the clouds about the sun lay up in golden 
creases, 
(Merry rings the maiden's voice that sings at dawn of 

day ;) 
Lambkins woke and skipped around to dry their dewy 

fleeces, 
So sweetly as she carolled, all on a morn of May. 

Quoth the Sergeant, " Here I '11 halt ; here's wine of joy 

for drinking ; 
To my heart she sets her hand, and in the strings doth 

play; 
All among the daffodils, and fairer to my thinking, 
And fresh as milk and roses, she sits this morn of May." 

Quoth the Sergeant, " Work is work, but any ye might 

make me, 
If I worked for you, dear lass, I 'd count my holiday. 
I 'm your slave for good and all, an' if ye will but take 

me, 
So sweetly as ye carol upon this morn of May." 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. gg 

" Medals count for worth," quoth she, " and scars are 

worn for honor ; 
But a slave an' if ye be, kind wooer, go your way." 
All the nodding daffodils woke up and laughed upon her. 
O ! sweetly did she carol, all on that morn of May. 

Gladsome leaves upon the bough, they fluttered fast and 

faster, 
Fretting brook, till he would speak, did chide the dull 

delay : 
" Beauty ! when I said a slave, I think I meant a master ; 
So sweetly as ye carol all on this morn of May. 

" Lass, I love you ! Love is strong, and some men's 

hearts are tender." 
Far she sought o'er wood and wold, but found not aught 

to say ; 
Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would any counsel 

render, 
Though sweetly she had carolled upon that morn of May. 

Shy, she sought the wooer's face, and deemed the wooing 

mended ; 
Proper man he was, good sooth, and one would have his 

way : 
So the lass w^as made a wife, and so the song was ended. 
! sweetly she did carol all on that morn of Miv. 



A STORY OF DOOM, 




BOOK I. 

ILOIYA said to Noah, " What aileth thee, 
My master, unto whom is my desire. 
The father of my sons ? " He answered her, 
" Mother of many children, I have heard 
The Voice again." " Ah, me ! " she saith, " ah, me ! 
What spake it ? " and with that Niloiya sighed. 

This when the Master-builder heard, his heart 

Was sad in him, the while he sat at home 

And rested after toil. The steady rap 

0' the shipwright's hammer sounding up the vale 

Did seem to mock him ; but her distaff down 

Niloiya laid, and to the doorplace went, 

Parted the purple covering seemly hung 

Before it, and let in the crimson light 

or the descending sun. Then looked he forth, — 

Looked, and beheld the hollow where the ark 

Was a-preparing ; where the dew distilled 



A STORY OF DOOM. loi 

All night from leaves of old lign aloe-trees, 
Upon the gliding river ; where the palm, 
The almug, and the gophir shot their heads 
Into the crimson brede that dyed the world : 
And lo ! he marked — unwieldy, dark, and huge — 
The ship, his glory and his grief, — too vast 
For that still river's floating, — building far 
From mightier streams, amid the pastoral dells 
Of shepherd kings. 

Niloiya spake again : 
" What said the Voice, thou well-beloved man ? " 
He, laboring with his thought that troubled him, 
Spoke on behalf of God : " Behold," said he, 
" A little handful of unlovely dust 
He fashioned to a lordly grace, and when 
He laughed upon its beauty, it waxed warm, 
And with His breath awoke a living soul. 

" Shall not the Fashioner command His work ? 
And who am I, that, if He whisper, ' Rise, 
Go forth upon Mine errand,' should reply, 
' Lord, God, I love the woman and her sons, — 
I love not scorning : I beseech Thee, God, 
Have me excused.' " 

She answered him, " Tell on." 
And he continuing, reasoned with his soul : 
'• What though I, — like some goodly lama sunk 
In meadow grass, eating her way at ease, 
Unseen of them that pass, and asking not 



I02 A STORY OF DOOM. 

A wider prospect than of yellow-flowers 

That nod above her head, — should lay me down. 

And willingly forget this high behest, 

There should be yet no tarrying. Furthermore, 

Though I went forth to cry against the doom, 

Earth crieth louder, and she draws it down : 

It hangeth balanced over us ; she crieth, 

And it shall fall. O ! as for me, my life 

Is bitter, looking onward, for I know 

That in the fulness of the time shall dawn 

That day : my preaching shall not bring forth fruit, 

Though for its sake I leave thee. I shall float 

Upon the abhorred sea, that mankind hate. 

With thee and thine." 

She answered : " God forbid ! 
For, sir, though men be ^vil, yet the deep 
They dread, and at the last will surely turn 
To Him, and He long-suffering will forgive. 
And chide the waters back to their abyss, 
To cover the pits where doleful creatures feed. 
Sir, I am much afraid : I would not hear 
Of riding on the waters : look you, sir, 
Better it were to die with you by hand 
Of them that hate us, than to live, ah me ! 
Rolling among the furrows of the unquiet, 
Unconsecrate, unfriendly, dreadful sea." 

He saith again : " I pray thee, woman, peace, 
J^or thou wilt enter, when that day appears, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 103 

The fateful ship." 

« My lord," quoth she, " I will. 
But 0, good sir, be sure of this, be sure 
The Master calleth ; for the time is long 
That thou hast warned the world : thou art but here 
Three days ; the song of welcoming but now 
Is ended. I behold thee, I am glad ; 
And wilt thou go again ? Husband, I say, 
Be sure who 't is that calleth ; O, be sure. 
Be sure. My mother's ghost came up last night, 
Whilst I thy beard, held in my hands did kiss, 
Leaning anear thee, wakeful through my love, 
And watchful of thee till the moon went down. 

*' She never loved me since I went with thee 
To sacrifice among the hills : she smelt 
The holy smoke, and could no more divine 
Till the new moon. I saw her ghost come up ; 
It had a snake with a red comb of fire 
Twisted about its waist, — the doggish head 
Lolled on its shoulder, and so leered at me. 
' This woman might be wiser,' quoth the ghost ; 
' Shall there be husbands for her found below, 
When she comes down to us ? O, fool ! O, fool ! 
She must not let her man go forth, to leave 
Her desolate, and reap the whole world's scorn, 
A harvest for himself.' With that they passed." 

He said, " My crystal drop of perfectness, \ 



I04 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

I pity thee ; it was an evil ghost : 
Thou wilt not heed the counsel ? " "I will not," 
Quoth she ; " I am loyal to the Highest. Him 
I hold by even as thou, and deem Him best. 
Sir, am I fairer than when last we met ? " 

" God add," said he, " unto thy much yet more, 
As I do think thou art." " And think you. sir," 
Niloija saith, " that I have reached the prime ? " 
He answering, " Nay, not yet." " I would 't were so,' 
She plaineth, " for the daughters mock at me : 
Her locks forbear to grow, they say, so sore 
She pineth for the master. Look you, sir, 
They reach but to the knee. But thou art come, 
And all goes merrier. Eat, my lord, of all 
My supper that I set, and afterward 
Tell me, I pray thee, somewhat of thy way ; 
Else shall I be despised as Adam was, 
Who compassed not the learning of his sons, 
But, grave and silent, oft would lower his head 
And ponder, following of great Isha's feet. 
When she would walk with her fair brow upraised, 
Scorning the children that she bare to him." 

" Ay," quoth the Master ; " but they did amiss 
When they despised their father : knowest thou that ? ' 

" Sure he was foolisher," Niloiya saith, 
\ " Than any that came after. Furthermore, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

He had not heart nor courage for to rule : 
He let the mastery fall from his slack hand. 
Had not our glorious mother still borne up 
His weakness, chid with him, and sat apart, 
And listened, when the fit came over him 
To talk on his lost garden, he had sunk 
Into the slave of slaves." 

" Nay, thou must think 
How he had dwelt long, God's loved husbandman, 
And looked in hope among the tribes for one 
To be his fellow, ere great Isha, once 
Waking, he found at his left side, and knew 
The deep delight of speech." So Noah, and thus 
Added, " And therefore was his loss the more ; 
For though the creatures he had singled out 
His favorites, dared for him the fiery sword 
And followed after him, — shall bleat of lamb 
Console one for the foregone talk of God ? 
Or in the afternoon, his faithful dog, 
Fawning upon him, make his heart forget 
At such a time, and such a time, to have heard 
What he shall hear no more ? 

" O, as for him, 
It was for this that he full oft would stop. 
And, lost in thought, stand and revolve that deed, 
Sad muttering, ' Woman ! we reproach thee not ; 
Though thou didst eat mine immortality ; 
Earth, be not sorry ; I was free to choose. 
Wonder not, therefore, if he walked forlorn. 



105 



Io6 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

Was not the helpmeet given to raise him up 
\ From iiis contentment with the lower thinjrs ? 
I AVus she not somewhat that he could not rule 
(^ Beyond the action, that he could not have 

By the mere holding, and that still aspired 
^ And drew him after her ? ' So, when deceived 
j She fell by great desire to rise, he fell 
By loss of upward drawing] when she took 
An evil tongue to be her counsellor : 
f * Death is not as the death of lower things, 
Rather a glorious change, begrudged of Heaven, 
A change to being as gods,' — he fi'om her hand, 
Upon reflection, took of death that hour. 
And ate it (not the death that she had dared) ; 
He ate it knowing. Then divisions came. 
She, like a spirit strayed who lost the way, 
Too venturesome, among the farther stars, 
And hardly cares, because it hardly hopes 
To find the path to heaven ; in bitter wise 
Did bear to him degenerate seed, and he. 
Once having felt her ui)ward drawing, longed, 
And yet aspired, and yearned to be restored, 
Albeit she drew no more." 

" Sir, ye speak well,' 
Niloiya saith, " but yet the mother sits 
Higher than Adam. He did understand 
Discourse of birds and all four-footed things, 
But she had knowledge of the many tribes 
Of ar^gels and their tongues ; their playful ways 



A STORY OF DOOM. 107 

And greetings when they met. Was she not wise ? 
Tliey say she knew much that she never told, 
And had a voice that called to her as tliou." 



" Nay," quoth the Master-shipwright, " who am I 

That I should answer ? As for me, poor man, 

Here is my trouble : ' if there be a Voice,' 

At first I cried, ' let me behold the mouth 

That uttereth it.' Thereon it held its peace. 

But afterward, I, journeying up the hills. 

Did hear it hollower than an echo fallen 

Acros^ some clear abyss ; and I did stop, 

And ask of all my company, ' Wiiat cheer ? 

If there be spirits abroad that call to us, 

Sir.-, hold your peace and hear.' So they gave heed, 

And one man said, ' It is the small ground-doves 

Tliat peck upon the stony liillocks' : one, 

* It is the mammoth in yon cedar swamp 

That cheweth in his dream ' : and one, ' My lord. 

It is the ghost of him that yesternight 

"We slew, because he grudged to yield his wife 

To thy great father, when he peaceably 

Did send to take her.' Then I answered, ' Pass,* 

And they went on ; and I did lay mine ear 

Close to the earth ; but there came up therefrom 

No sound, nor any speech ; I waited long, 

And in the saying, ' I will mount my beast 

And on,* I was as one that in a trance 

Beholdeth what is coming, and I saw 



I08 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Great waters and a ship ; and somewhat spake, 

* Lo, this shall be ; let him that heareth it, 
And seeth it, go forth to warn his kind, 
For I will drown the world.' " 

Niloiya saith, 
" Sir, was that all that ye went forth upon ? " 
The master, he replieth, " Ay, at first. 
That same was all ; but many days went by. 
While I did reason with my heart and hope 
For more, and struggle to remain, and think, 

* Let me be certain ' ; and so think again, 

* The counsel is but dark ; would I had more ! , 
When I have more to guide me, I will go.' 

And afterward, when reasoned on too much. 
It seemed remoter, then I only said, 

* O, would I had the same again ' ; and still 
I had it not. 

" Then at the last I cried, 

* If the unseen be silent, I will speak 
And certify my meaning to myself. 

Say that He spoke, then He will make that good 
Which He hath spoken. Therefore it were best 
To go, and do His bidding. All the earth 
Shall hear the judgment so, and none may cry 
When the doom falls, " Thou God art hard on us ; 
We knew not Thou wert angry. O ! we are lost, 
Only for lack of being warned." 

" ' But say 
That He spoke not, and merely it befell 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

That I being weary had a dream. Why, so 

He could not suffer damage ; when the time 

Was past, and that I threatened had not come, 

Men would cry out on me, haply me kill, 

For troubling their content. They would not swear, 

'' God, that did send this man, is proved untrue," 

But rather, " Let him die ; he lied to us ; 

God never sent him." Only Thou, great King, 

Knowest if Thou didst speak or no. I leave 

The matter here. If Thou wilt speak again, 

I go in gladness ; if Thou wilt not speak. 

Nay, if Thou never didst, I not the less \ 

Shall go, because I have believed, what time 

I seemed to hear Thee, and the going stands 

With memory of believing.' Then I washed, 

And did array me in the sacred gown, 

And take a lamb." 

" Ay, sir," Niloiya sighed, 
" I following, and I knew not anything 
Till, the young lamb asleep in thy two arms, 
We, moving up among the silent hills. 
Paused in a grove to rest ; and many slaves 
Came near to make obeisance, and to bring 
Wood for the sacrifice, and turf and fire. 
Then in their hearing thou didst say to me, 
' Behold, I know thy good fidelity. 
And theirs that are about us ; they would guard 
The mountain passes, if it were my will 
Awhile to leave thee ' ; and the pygmies laughed 



109 



\ 



no A STORY OF DOOM. 

For joy, that thou wouldst trust inferior things ; 

And put their heads down, as their manner is, 

To touch our feet. They laughed, but sore 1 wept ; 

Sir, I could weep now ; ye did ill to go 

If that was all your bidding ; I had thought 

God drave thee, and thou couldst not choose but go." 

Then said the son of Lamech, " Afterward, 
*VVhen I had left thee, He whom I had served 
Met with me in the visions of the night, 
To comfort me for that I had withdrawn 
From thy dear company. He sware to me 
That no man should molest thee, no, nor touch 
, The bordering of mine outmost field. I say, 
\^ When I obeyed. He made His matters plain. 
With whom could I have left thee, but with them, 
Born in thy mother's house, and bound thy slaves ? '* 

She said, " I love not pygmies ; they are naught." 

And he, " Who made them pygmies ?" Then she pushed 

Her veiling hair back from her round, soft eyes. 

And answered, wondering, " Sir, my mothers did. 

Ye know it." And he drew her near to sit 

Beside him on the settle, answering, " Ay." 

And they went on to talk as writ below, 

If any one shall read : 

" Thy mother did. 
And they that went before her. Thinkest thou 
That they did well ? " 



A STORY OF DOOM. HI 

" They had been overcome ; 
And when the angered conquerors drave them out, 
Behoved them find some other way to rule, — 
They did but use their wits. Hath not man aye 
Been cunning in dominion, among beasts 
To breed for size or swiftness, or for sake 
Of the white wool he loveth, at his choice ? 
What harm if coveting a race of men 
That could but serve, they sought among their thralls, 
Such as were low of stature, men and maids ; 
Ay, and of feeble will and quiet mind ? 
Did they not spend much gear to gather out 
Such as I tell of, and for matching them 
One with another for a thousand years ? 
What harm, then, if there came of it a race, 
Inferior in their wits, and in their size, 
And well content to serve ? " 

" ' What harm ? ' thou sayest. 
My wife doth ask, ' What harm ? ' " 

" Your pardon, sir. 
I do remember that there came one day. 
Two of the grave old angels that God made, 
AVhen first He invented life (right old they were. 
And plain, and venerable) ; and they said. 
Rebuking of my mother as with hers 
She sat, ' Ye do not well, you wives of men, 
To match your wit against the Maker's will. 
And for your benefit to lower the stamp 
Of His fair image, which He set at first 



112 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Upon man's goodly frame ; ye do not well 
To treat his likeness even as ye treat 
The bird and beast that perish.' " 

" Said they aught 
To appease the ancients, or to speak them fair ? " 

" How know I ? 'T was a slave that told it me. 
My mother was full old when I was born, 
And that was in her youth. What think you, sir ? 
Did not the giants likewise ill ? " 

" To that 
I have no answer ready. If a man, 
When each one is against his fellow, rule, 
Or unmolested dwell, or unreproved. 
Because, for size and strength, he standeth first, 
He will thereof be glad ; and if he say, 
' I will to wife choose me a stately maid. 
And leave a goodly offspring ' ; 'sooth, I think, 
He sinneth not ; for good to him and his 
He would be strong and great. Thy people's fault 
Was, that for ill to others, they did plot 
To make them weak and small." 

" But yet they steal 
Or take in war the strongest maids, and such 
As are of highest stature ; ay, and oft 
They fight among themselves for that same cause. 
And they {ire proud against the King of heaven : 
They hope in course of ages they shall come 
To be as strong ns He." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



113 



The Master said, 
" I will not hear thee talk thereof ; my heart 
Is sick for all this wicked world. Fair wife, 
I am right weary. Call thy slaves to thee, 
And bid that they prepare the sleeping place. 
O would that I might rest ! I fain would rest, 
And, no more wandering, tell a thankless world 
My never-heeded tale ! " 

With that she called. 
The moon was up, and some few stars were out, 
While heavy at the heart he walked abroad 
To meditate before his sleep. And yet 
Niloiya pondered, '' Shall my master go ? 
And will my master go ? What 'vaileth it, 
That he doth spend himself, over the waste 
A wandering, till he reach outlandish folk. 
That mock his warning ? 0, what 'vaileth it. 
That he doth lavish wealth to build yon ark. 
Whereat the daughters, when they eat with me, 
Laugh ? O my heart ! I would the Voice were stilled. 
Is not he happy ? Who, of all the earth. 
Obeyed like to me ? Have not I learned 
From his dear month to utter seemly words. 
And lay the powers my mother gave me by ? 
Have I made offerings to the dragon ? Nay, 
And T am faithful, when he leaveth me 
Lonely betwixt the peaked mountain tops 
In this long valley, where no stranger foot 
Can come without my will. H(^ shall not go. 

H 



114 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

Not yet, not yet ! But three days — only three -^ 

Beside me, and a muttering on the third, 

' I have heard the Voice again.' Be dull, O dull, 

Mind and remembrance ! Mother, ye did ill ; 

'T is hard unlawful knowledge not to use. 

Why, O dark mother ! opened ye the way ? '* 

Yet when he entered, and did lay aside 

His costly robe of sacrifice, the robe 

Wherein he had been offering, ere the sun 

Went down ; forgetful of her mother's craft, 

She lovely and submiss did mourn to him : 

" Thou wilt not go, — I pray thee, do not go, 

Till thou hast seen thy children." And he said, 

" I will not. I have cried, and have prevailed : 

To-morrow it is given me by the Voice 

Upon a four days' journey to proceed. 

And follow down the river, till its weaves 

Are swallowed in the sand, where no flesh dwells. 

" ' There,' quoth the Unrevealed, ' we shall meet, 

And I will counsel thee ; and thou shalt turn 

And rest thee with the mother, and with them 

She bare.' Now, therefore, when the morn appears, 

Thou fairest among women, call thy slaves. 

And bid them yoke the steers, and spread thy car 

With robes, the choicest work of cunning hands ; 

Array thee in thy rich apparel, deck 

Thy locks with gold ; and while the hollow vale 

I thread beside yon river, go thou forth 



A STORY OF DOOM. II5 

Atween the mountains to my father's house, 

And let thy slaves make all obeisance due, 

And take and lay an offering at his feet. 

Then light, and cry to him, ' Great king, the son 

Of old Methuselah, thy son hath sent 

To fetch the growing maids, his children, home.' " 

" Sir," quoth the woman, " I will do this thing, 
So thou keep faith with me, and yet return. 
But will the Voice, think you, forbear to chide. 
Nor that Unseen, who calleth, buffet thee. 
And drive thee on ? " 

He saith, " It will keep faith. 
Fear not. I have prevailed, for I besought. 
And lovingly it answered. I shall rest. 
And dwell with thee till after my three sons 
Come from the chase." She said, " I let them forth 
In fear, for they are young. Their slaves are few. 
The giant elephants be cunning folk ; 
They lie in ambush, and will draw men on 
To follow, — then will turn and tread them down." 
" Thy father's house unwisely planned," said he, 
" To drive them down upon the growing corn 
Of them that were their foes ; for now, behold. 
They suffer while the unwieldy beasts delay 
Retirement to their lands, and, meanwhile, pound 
The damp, deep meadows, to a pulpy mash ; 
Or wallowing in the waters foul them ; nay. 
Tread down the banks, and let them forth to flood 



Il6 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Their cities ; or, assailed and falling, shake 
The walls, and taint the wind, ere thirty men, 
Over the hairy terror piling stones 
Or earth, prevail to cover it." 

She said, 
" Husband, I have been sorry, thinking oft 
I would my sons were home ; but now so well 
Methinks it is with me, that I am fain 
To wish they might delay, for thou wilt dwell 
With me till after they return, and thou 
Hast set thine eyes upon them. Then, — ah, me ! 
I must sit joyless in my place ; bereft, 
/ As trees that suddenly have dropped their leaves, 
^ And dark as nights that have no moon." 

She spak 
1 The hope o' the world did hearken, but reply 
Made none. He left his hand on her fair locks 
As she lay sobbing ; and the quietness 
Of night began to comfort her, the fall 
Of far-off waters, and the winged wind 
That went among the trees. The patient hand. 
Moreover, that was steady, wrought with her, 
Until she said, " What wilt thou ? Nay, I know. 
I therefore answer what thou utterest not. 
Thou lovest me well, and not for thine own will 
Consentest to depart. What more ? Ay, this : 
I do avow that He which calleth thee, 
Hath right to call ; and I do swear, the Voice 
Shall have no let of me, to do Its will" 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK 11. 



117 



NOW ere the sunrise, while the morning star 
Hung yet behind the pine bough, woke and prayed 
The world's great shipwright, and his soul was glad 
Because the Voice was favorable. Now 
Began the tap o' the hammer, now ran forth 
The slaves preparing food. They therefore ate 
In peace together ; then Niloiya forth 
Behind the milk-white steers went on her way ; 
And the great Ma?;ter-builder, down the course 
Of the long river, on his errand sped, 
And as he went, he thought : 

[They do not w^ell 
Who, walking up a trodden path, all smooth 
With footsteps of their fellows, and made straight 
From town to town, will scorn at them that wonn 
Under the covert of God's eldest trees 
(Such as He planted with His hand, and fed 
With dew before rain fell, till they stood close 
And awful ; drank the light up as it dropt, 
And kept the dusk of ages at their roots) ; 
They do not well who mock at such, and cry, 
" We peaceably, without or fault or fear, 
Proceed, and miss not of our end ; but these 
Are slow and fearful : with uncertain pace. 
And ever reasoning of the way, they oft, 



Il8 A STORY OF DOOM. 

After all reasoning, choose the worser course, 

And plunged in swamp, or in the matted growth 

Nigh smothered struggle, all to reach a goal 

Not worth their pains." Nor do they well whose work 

Is still to feed and shelter them and theirs. 

Get gain, and gathered store it, to think scorn 

Of those who work for a world (no wages paid 

By a Master hid in light), and sent alone 

To face a laughing multitude, whose eyes 

Are full of damaging pity, that forbears 

To tell the harmless laborer, " Thou art mad."] 

And as he went, he thought : " They counsel me, 

Ay, with a kind of reason in their talk, 

* Consider ; call thy soberer thought to aid ; 

Why to but one man should a message come ? 

And why, if but to one, to thee ? Art thou 

Above us, greater, wiser ? Had He sent. 

He had willed that we should heed. Then since He 

knoweth 
That such as thou, a wise man cannot heed, 
He did not send.' My answer, ' Great and wise. 
If He had sent with thunder, and a voice 
Leaping from heaven, ye must have heard ; but so 
Ye had been robbed of choic^e, and, like the beasts, 
Yoked to obedience. God makes no men slaves.* 
They tell me, ' God is great above thy thought : 
He meddles not : and this small world is ours, 
These many hundred years we govern it ; 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

Old Adam, after Eden, saw Him not/ 

Tiien I, ' It may be He is gone to knead 

More clay. But look, my masters ; one of you 

Going to warfare, layeth up his gown. 

His sickle, or his gold, and thinks no more 

Upon it, till young trees have waxen great ; 

At last, when he returneth, he will seek 

His own. And God, shall He not do the like ? 

And having set new worlds a-rolling, come 

And say, " I will betake Me to the earth 

That I did make": and having found it vile, 

Be sorry. Why should man be free, you wise, 

And not the Master ? ' Then they answer, ' Fool ! 

A man shall cast a stone into the air 

For pastime, or for lack of heed, — but He ! 

Will He come fingering of His ended work, 

Fright it with His approaching face, or snatch 

One day the rolling wonder from its ring. 

And hold it quivering, as a wanton child 

Might take a nestling from its downy bed, 

And having satisfied a careless wish. 

Go thrust it back into its place again ? ' 

To such I answer, and, that doubt once mine, 

1 am assured that I do speak aright : 

' Sirs, the significance of this your doubt 

Lies in the reason of it ; ye do grudge 

That these your lands should have another Lord ; 

Ye are not loyal, therefore ye would fain 

Your King would bide afar. But if ye looked 



119 



120 ^ STORY OF DOOM, 

For countenance and favor when He came, 
Knowing yourselves right worthy, would ye care, 
With cautious reasoning, deep and hard, to prove 
That He would never come, and would your wrath 
Be hot against a prophet? Nay, I wot 
That as a flatterer you would look on him, — 
" Full of sweet words thy mouth is : if He come, — 
We think not that He w^ill, — but if He come, 
Would it might be to-morrow, or to-night. 
Because we look for praise." ' " 

Now, as he went, 
The noontide heats came on, and he grew faint ; 
But while he sat below an almug-tree, 
A slave approached with greeting. " Master, hail ! " 
He answered, " Hail ! what wilt thou? " Then she said. 
" The palace of thy fathers standeth nigh." 
" I know it," quoth he ; and she said again, 
" The Elder, learning thou wouldst pass, hath sent 
To fetch thee " ; then he rose and followed her. 
So first they walked beneath a lofty roof 
Of living bough and tendril, woven on high 
To let no drop of sunshine through, and hung 
With gold and purple fruitage, and the white 
Thick cups of scented blossom. Underneath, 
Soft grew the sward and delicate, and flocks 
Of egrets, ay, and many cranes, stood up. 
Fanning their wings, to agitate and cool 
The noonday air, as men with heed and pains 
Had taught them, marshalling and taming them 
To bear the wind in, on their moving wings. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 12 1 

So long time as a nimble slave would spend 
In milking of her cow, they walked at ease ; 
Then reached the palace, all of forest trunks, 
Brought whole, and set together, made. Therein 
Had dwelt old Adam, when his mighty sons 
Had finished it, and up to Eden gate 
Had journeyed for to fetch him. " Here," they said, 
" Mother and father, ye may dwell, and here 
Forget the garden wholly." 

So he came 
Under the doorplace, and the women sat, 
Each with her finger on her lips ; but he, 
Having been called, went on, until he reached 
The jewelled settle, wrought with cunning work 
Of gold and ivory, whereon they wont 
To set the Elder. All with sleekest skins. 
That striped and spotted creatures of the wood 
Had worn, the seat was covered, but thereon 
The Elder was not ; by the steps thereof, 
Upon the floor, whereto his silver beard 
Did reach, he sat, and he was in his trance. 
Upon the settle many doves were perched. 
That set the air a going with their wings : 
These opposite, the world's great shipwright stood 
To wait the burden ; and the Elder spake : 
" Will He forget me ? Would He might forget ! 
Old, old J The hope of old Methuselah 
Is all in His forge tfulness." With that, 
A slave-girl took a cup of wine, and crept 
6 



122 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Anear him, saying, " Taste " ; and when his lips 
Had touched it, lo, he trembled, and he cried, 
" Behold, I prophesy." 

Then straight they fled 
That were about him, and did stand apart 
And stop their ears. For he, from time to time, 
Was plagued with that same fate to prophesy, 
And spake against himself, against his day 
And time, in words that all men did abhor. 
Therefore, he warning them what time the fit 
Came on him, saved them, that they heard it not. 
So while they fled, he cried : " I saw the God 
Reach out of heaven His wonderful right hand. 
Lo, lo ! He dipped it in the unquiet sea, 
And in its curved palm behold the ark. 
As in a vast calm lake, came floating on. 
Ay, then. His other hand — the cursing hand — 
He took and spread between us and the sun, 
And all was black ; the day was blotted out. 
And horrible staggering took the frighted earth. 
I heard the water hiss, and then methinks 
The crack as of her splitting. Did she take 
Their palaces that are my brothers dear. 
And huddle them with all their ancientry 
Under into her breast ? If it was black. 
How could this old man see ? There was a noise 
r the dark, and He drew back His hand again. 
I looked, — It was a dream, — let no man say 
It was aught else. There, so — the fit goes by. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 123 

Sir, and my daughters, is it eventide ? — 

Sooner than that, saith old Methuselah, 

Let the vulture lay his beak to my green limbs. 

What ! art Thou envious ? — are the sons of men 

Too wise to please Thee, and to do Thy will ? 

Methuselah, he sitteth on the ground, 

Clad in his gown of age, the pale white gown, 

And goeth not forth to war ; his wrinkled hands 

He claspeth round his knees : old, very old. 

Would he could steal from Thee one secret more — 

The secret of Thy yourh ! O, envious God ! 

We die. The words of old Methuselah 

And his prophecy are ended." 

Then the wives, 
Beholding how he trembled, and the maids 
And children, came anear, saying, " Who art thou 
That standest gazing on the Elder ? Lo, 
Thou dost not well : withdraw ; for it was thou 
Wliose stranger presence troubled him, and brought 
The fit of prophecy." And he did turn 
Tp look upon them, and their majesty 
And glorious beauty took away his words ; 
And being pure among the vile, he cast 
In his thought a veil of snow-white purity 
Over the beauteous throng. " Thou dost not well," 
They said. He answered : " Blossoms o' the woild, 
Fruitful as fair, never in watered glade, 
Where in the youngest grass blue cups push forth, 
And the white hly reareth up her head, 



\ 



124 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

And purples cluster, and the saffron flower 

Clear as a flame of sacrifice breaks out, 

And every cedar bough, made delicate 

With climbing roses, drops in white and red, — 

Saw I (o^ood angels keep you in their care) 

So beautiful a crowd." 

With that, they stamped, 
Gnnshed their white teeth, and turning, fled and spat 
Upon the floor. The Elder spake to him, 
Yet shaking with the burden, " Who art thou ? " 
He answered, " I, the man whom thou didst send 
To fetch through this thy woodland, do forbear 
To tell my name ; thou lovest it not, great sire, — 
No, nor mine errand. To thy house I spake. 
Touching their beauty." " Wherefore didst thou spite," 
Quoth he, " the daughters ? " and it seemed he lost 
Count of that prophecy, for very age, 
And from his thin lips dropt a trembling laugh. 
" Wicked old man," quoth he, " this w^ise old man 
I see as 't were not I. Thou bad old man, 
What shall be done to thee ? for thou didst burn 
Their babes, and strew the ashes all about. 
To rid the world of His white soldiers. Ay, 
Scenting of human sacrifice, they fled. 
Cowards ! I heard them winnow their great wings : 
They went to tell Him ; but they came no more. 
The women hate to hear of them, so sore 
They grudged their little ones ; and yet no way 
There was but that. I took it ; I did well." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 125 

With that he fell to weeping. " Son," said he, j 

" Long have I hid mine eyes from stalwart men, 

For it is hard to lose the majesty 

And pride and power of manhood : but to-day, 

Stand forth into the light, that I may look 

Upon thy strength, and tliink, Even thus did I, 

In the glory of my youth, more like to God 

Than like His soldiers, face the vassal world." 



Then Noah stood forward in his majesty, 

Shouldering the golden billhook, Avherewithal 

He wont to cut his way, when tangled in 

The matted hayes. And down the opened roof 

Fell slanting beams upon his stately head, 

And streamed along his gown, and made to shine 

The jewelled sandals on his feet. 

And, lo, 
The Elder cried aloud : " I prophesy. 
Behold, my son is as a fruitful field 
When all the lands are waste. The archers drew, — 
They drew the bow against him ; they were fain 
To slay : but he shall live, — my son shall live, 
And I shall live by him in the other days. 
Behold the prophet ol" the Most Higii God : 
Hear him. Behold the hope o' the world, what time 
She lieth under. Hear him ; he shall save 
A seed alive, and sow the earth with man. \ 

O, earth ! earth ! earth ! a floatinir shell of wood \ 
Shall hold the remnant of thy mighty lords. 



126 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

Will this old man be in it ? Sir, and you 

My daughters, hear him ! Lo, this white old man 

He sitteth on the ground. (Let be, let be : 

Why dost Thou trouble us to make our tongue 

Ring with abhorred words ?) The prophecy 

Of the Elder, and the vision that he saw, 

They both are ended." 

Then said Noah : " The life 
Of this my lord is low for very age : 
Why then, with bitter words upon thy tongue, 
Father of Laraech, dost thou anger Him ? 
Thou canst not strive against Him now." He said : 
*' Thy feet are toward the valley, where lie bones 
Bleaching upon the desert. Did I love 
The lithe strong lizards that I yoked and set 
To draw my car ? and were they not possessed ? 
Yea, all of them were liars. I loved them well. 
What did the Enemy, but on a day 
When I behind my talking team went forth, 
They sweetly Ij'ing, so that all men praised 
Their flattering tongues and mild persuasive eyes, — 
What did the Enemy but send His slaves. 
Angels, to cast down stones upon their heads 
And break them ? Nay, I could not stir abroad 
But havoc came ; they never crept or flew 
Beyond the shelter that I builded here. 
But straight the crowns I had set upon their heads 
Were marks for myrmidons that in the clouds 
Kept watch to crush them. Can a man forgive 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

That hath been warred on thus ? I will not Nay, 

I swear it, — I, the man Methuselah." 

The Master-shipwright, he replied, " 'T is true, 

Great loss was that ; but they that stood thy friends, 

The wicked spirits, spoke upon their tongues. 

And cursed the God of heaven. What marvel, sir, 

If He was angered ? " But the Elder cried, 

" They all are dead, — the toward beasts I loved ; 

My goodly team, my joy, they all are dead ; 

Their bones lie bleaching in the wilderness : 

And I will keep my wrath for evermore 

Against the Enemy that slew them. Go, 

Thou coward servant of a tyrant King, 

Go down the desert of the bones, and ask, 

* My King, what bones are these ? Methuselah, 

The white old man that sitteth on the ground, 

Sendeth a message, " Bid them that they live, 

And let my lizards run up every path 

They wont to take when out of silver pipes, 

The pipes that Tubal wrought into my roof, 

I blew a sweeter cry than song-bird's throat 

Hath ever formed ; and while they laid their heads 

Submiss upon my threshold, poured away 

Music that welled by heartsful out, and made 

The throats of men that heard to swell, their breasts 

To heave with the joy of grief; yea, caused the lips 

To laugh of men asleep. 

Return to me 
The great wise lizards ; ay, and them that flew 



127 



128 A STORY OF DOOM. 

My pursuivants before me. Let me yoke 

Agaiu that multitude ; and here I swear 

That they shall draw my car and me thereon 

Straight to the ship of doom. So men shall know 

My loyalty, that I submit, and Thou 

Shalt yet have honor, O mine Enemy, 

P>y me. The speech of old Methuselah." ' " 

Then Noah made answer, " By the living God, 

That is no enemy to men, great sire, 

I will not take thy message ; hear thou Him. 

* Behold (He saith that suffereth thee), behold, 

The earth that I made green cries out to Me, 

Red with the costly blood of beauteous man. 

I am robbed, I am robbed (He saith) ; they sacrifice 

To evil demons of My blameless flocks. 

That I did fashion with My hand. Behold, 

How goodly was the world ! I gave it thee 

Fresh from its finishing. What hast thou done ? 

I will cry out to the waters. Cover it, 

And hide it from its Father. Lo^ Mine eyes 

Turn from it shamed.' " 

With that the old man laughed 
Full softly. " Ay," quoth he, " a goodly world, 
And we have done with it as we did list. 
Why did He give it us ? Nay, look you, son : 
Five score they were that died in yonder waste ; 
And if He crieth, ' Repent, be reconciled,' 
I answer, ' Nay, my lizards'; and again, 
If He will trouble me in this mine age, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 129 

* Why hast Thou slain ray lizards ? ' Now my speech 

Is cut away from all my other words, 

Standing alone. The Elder sweareth it, 

The man of many days, Methuselah." 

Then answered Noah, " My Master, hear it not ; 

But yet have patience"; and he turned himself. 

And down betwixt the ordered trees went forth, 

And in the light of evening made his way 

Into the waste to meet the Voice of God. 



6* 



130 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK m. 

ABOVE the head of great Methuselah 
There lay two demons in the opened roof 
Invisible, and gathered up his words ; 
For when the Elder prophesied, it came 
About, that hidden things were shown to them, 
And burdens that he spake against his time. 

(But never heard them, such as dwelt with him ; 
Their ears they stopped, and willed to live at ease 
In all delight ; and perfect in their youth. 
And strong, disport them in the perfect world.) 

Now these were fettered that they could not fly, 

For a certain disobedience they had wrought 

Against the ruler of their host ; but not 

The less they loved their cause ; and when the feet 

0' the Master-builder were no longer heard, 

They, slipping to the sward, right painfully 

Did follow, for the one to the other said, 

" Behoves our master know of this ; and us, 

Should he be favorable, he may loose 

From these our bonds." 

And thus it came to pass, 
That while at dead of night the old dragon lay 
Coiled in the cavern where he dwelt, the watch 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

Pacing before it saw in middle air 
A boat, that gleamed like fire, and on it came, 
And rocked as it drew near, and then it burst 
And went to pieces, and there fell therefrom, 
Close at the cavern's mouth, two glowing balls. 

Now there was drawn a curtain nigh the mouth 
Of that deep cave, to testify of wrath. 
The dragon had been wroth with some that served, 
And chased them from him ; and his oracles, 
That wont to drop from him, were stopped, and men 
Might only pray to him through that fell web 
That hung before him. Then did whisper low 
Some of the little spirits that bat-like clung 
And clustered round the opening. " Lo," they said, 
While gazed the watch upon those glowing balls, 
" These are like moons eclipsed ; but let them lie 
Red on the moss, and sear its dewy spires. 
Until our lord give leave to draw the web. 
And quicken reverence by his presence dread, 
For he will know and call to them by name, 
And they will change. At present he is sick, 
And wills that none disturb him." So they lay. 
And there was silence, for the forest tribes 
Came never near that cave. Wiser than men, 
They fled the serpent hiss that oft by night 
Came forth of it, and feared the wan dusk forms 
Tiiat stalked among the trees, and in the dark 
Tho-e whitfs of flame that wandered up the sky 



131 



132 , ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

And made the moonlight sickly. 

Now, the cave 
Was marvellous for beauty, wrought with tools 
Into the living rock, for there had worked 
All cunning men, to cut on it with signs 
And shows, yea, all the manner of mankind. 
The fateful apple-tree was there, a bough 
Bent with the weight of him that us beguiled ; 
And lilies of the field did seem to blow 
-And bud in the storied stone. There Tubal sat, 
Who from his harp delivered music, sweet 
As any in the spheres. Yea, more ; 
Earth's latest wonder, on the walls appeared, 
Unfinished, workmen clustering on its ribs ; 
And farther back, within the rock hewn out, 
Angelic figures stood, that impious hands 
Had fashioned ; many golden lamps they held 
By golden chains depending, and their eyes 
All tended in a reverend quietude 
Toward the couch whereon the dragon lay. 
The floor was beaten gold ; the curly lengths 
Of his last coils lay on it, hid from sight 
With a coverlet made stiff with crusting gems, 
Fire opals shooting, rubies, fierce bright eyes 
Of diamonds, or the pale green emerald. 
That changed their lustre when he breathed. 

His head 
Feathered with crimson combs, and all his neck, 
And half-shut fans of his admired wings. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

That in their scalj splendor put to shame 
Or gold or stone, lay on his ivory couch 
And shivered ; for the dragon suffered pain : 
He suffered and he feared. It was his doom, 
The tempter, that he never should depart 
From the bright creature that in Paradise 
He for his evil purpose erst possessed, 
Until it died. Thus only, spirit of might 
And chiefest spirit of ill, could he be free. 

But with its nature wed, as souls of men 
Are wedded to their clay, he took the dread 
Of death and dying, and the coward heart 
Of the beast, and craven terrors of the end 
Sank him that habited within it to dread 
Disunion. He, a dark dominion erst 
Rebellious, lay and trembled, for the flesh 
Daunted his immaterial. He was sick 
And sorry. Great ones of the earth had sent 
Their chief musicians for to comfort him. 
Chanting his praise, the friend of man, the god 
That gave them knowledge, at so great a price 
And costly. Yea, the riches of the mine. 
And glorious broidered work, and woven gold. 
And all things wisely made, they at his feet 
Laid daily ; for they said, " This mighty one, 
All the world wonders after him. He lieth 
Sick in his dwelling ; he hath long foregone 
(To do us good) dominion, and a throne. 



133 



134 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

And his brave warfare with the Enemy, 

So much he pitieth us that were denied 

The gain and ghidness of this knowledge. Now 

Shall he be certified of gratitude, 

And smell the sacrifice that most he loves." 

The night was dark, but every lamp gave forth 
A tender, lustrous beam. His beauteous wings 
The dragon fluttered, cursed awhile, then turned 
And moaned with lamentable voice, " I thirst, 
Give me to drink." Thereon stepped out in haste, 
From inner chambers;, lovely ministrants. 
Young boys, with radiant locks and peaceful eyes, 
And poured out liquor from their cups, to cool 
His parched tongue, and kneeling held it nigh 
In jewelled basins sparkling ; and he lapped, 
And was appeased, and said, " I will not hide 
Longer, my much desired face from men. 
Draw back the web of separation." Then 
With cries of gratulation ran they forth, 
And flung it wide, and all the watch fell low, 
Each on his face, as drunk with sudden joy. 
Thus marked he, glowing on the branched moss, 
Those red rare moons, and let his serpent eyes 
Consider them full subtly, " What be these ? " 
Enquiring : and the little spirits said, 
" A:^ we for thy protection '(having heard 
That wrathful sons of darkness walk to-night, 
Such as do oft ill use us), clustered here, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

We marked a boat a-fire that sailed the skies, 
And furrowed up like spray a billowy cloud, 
And, lo, it went to pieces, scattering down 
A rain of sparks and these two angry moons." 
Then said the dragon, '• Let my guard, and you. 
Attendant hosts, recede " ; and they went back, 
And formed about the cave a widening ring, 
Then halting, stood afar ; and from the cave 
The snaky wonder spoke, with hissing tongue, 
*' If ye were Tartis and Deleisonon, 
Be Tartis and Deleisonon once more.'' 

Then egg-like cracked the glowing balls, and forth 
Started black angels, trampling hard to free 
Their fettered feet from out the smoking shell. 

And he said, " Tartis and Deleisonon, 

Your lord I am : draw nigh." " Thou art our lord,' 

They answered, and with fettered limbs full low 

They bent, and made obeisance. Furthermore, 

'' O fiery flying serpent, after whom 

The nations go, let thy dominion last," 

Tiiey said, " forever." And the serpent said, 

" It shall : unfold your errand." They replied. 

One speaking for a space, and afterward 

His fellow taking up the word with fear 

And panting, " We were set to watch the mouth 

Of great Methuselah. There came to him 

The son of Lamech two days since. My lord, 



135 



136 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



They prophesied, the Elder prophesied, 

Unwitting, of the flood of waters, — ay, 

A vision was before him, and the lands 

Lay under water drowned : he saw the ark, — 

It floated in the Enemy's right hand." 

Lord of the lost, the son of Lamech fled 

Into the wilderness to meet His voice 

That reigneth ; and we, diligent to hear 

Aught that might serve thee, followed, but, forbid 

To enter, lay upon its boundary cliff. 

And wished for morning. 

" When the dawn was red, 
We sought the man, we marked him ; and he prayed, — 
Kneeling, he prayed in the valley, and he said — " 
" Nay," quoth the serpent, " spare me, what devout 
He fawning grovelled to the All-powerful ; 
But if of what shall hap he aught let fall. 
Speak that." They answered, " He did pray as one 
That looketh to outlive mankind, — and more, 
We are certified by all his scattered words. 
That He will take from men their length of days. 
And cut them off like grass in its first flower : 
From henceforth this shall be." 

That when he heard. 
The dragon made to the night his moan. 

" And more,' 
They said, " that He above would have men know 
That He doth love them, M'hoso will repent, 
To that man he is favorable, yea. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 137 

Will be his loving Lord." 

The dragon cried, 
" The last is worse than all. O, man, thy heart 
Is stout against His wrath. But will He love ? 
I heard it rumored in the heavens of old, 
(And doth He love ?) Thou wilt not, canst not, stand 
Against the love of God. Dominion fails ; 
I see it float from me, that long have worn 
Fetters of flesh to win it. Love of God ! 
I cry against thee ; thou art worse than all." 
They answered, " Be not moved, admired chief 
And trusted of mankind " ; and they went on, 
And fed him with the prophecies that fell 
From the Master-shipwright in his prayer. 

But prone 
He lay, for he was sick : at every word 
Prophetic cowering. As a bruising blow, 
It fell upon his head and daunted him, 
Until they ended, saying, " Prince, behold. 
Thy servants have revealed the whole." 

Thereon 
He out of snaky lips did" hiss forth thanks. 
Then said he, " Tartis and Deleisonon, 
Receive your wages." So their fetters fell ; 
And they retiring, lauded him, and cried, 
" King, reign forever." Then he mourned, "Amen." 

And he, — being left alone, — he said : " A light ! 
I see a light, — a star among the trees, — 



38 



A SrORY OF DOOM. 



An angel." And it drew toward the cave, 

But with its sacred feet touched not the grass, 

Nor Htted up the lids of its pure eyes, 

But hung a span's length from that ground pollute, 

At the opening of the cave. 

And when he looked. 
The dragon cried, " Thou newly-fashioned thing, 
Of name unknown, thy scorn becomes thee not. 
Doth not thy Master suffer what thine eyes 
Thou countest all too clean to open on ? " 
But still it hovered, and the quietness 
Of holy heaven was on the drooping lids ; 
And not as one that answereth, it let fall 
The music from its mouth, but like to one 
That doth not hear, or, hearing, doth not heed. 

" A message : ' I have heard thee, while remote 
I went My rounds among the unfinished stars.' 
A message : ' I have left thee to thy ways, 
And mastered all thy vileness, for thy hate 
I have made to serve the ends of My great love. 
Hereafter will I chain thee down. To-day 
One thing thou art forbidden ; now thou knowest 
The name thereof: I told it thee in heaven. 
When thou wert sitting at My feet. Forbear 
To let that hidden thing be whispered forth : 
For man, ungrateful (and thy hope it was. 
That so ungrateful he might prove), would scorn, 
And not believe it, adding so fresh weight 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

Of condemnation to the doomed world. 
Concerning that, thou art forbid to speak ; 
Know thou didst count it, falling from My tongue, 
A lovely song, whose meaning was unknown. 
Unknowable, unbearable to thought. 
But sweeter in the hearing than all harps 
Toned in My holy hollow. Now thine ears 
Are opened, know it, and discern and fear, 
Forbearing speech of it for evermore.' " 

So said, it turned, and with a cry of joy, 
As one released, went up : and it was dawn. 
And all boughs dropped with dew, and out of mist 
Came the red sun and looked into the cave. 

But the dragon, left a-tremble, called to him. 

From the nether kingdom, certain of his friends, — 

Three whom he trusted, councillors accursed. 

A thunder-cloud stooped low and swathed the place 

In its black swirls, and out of it they rushed, 

And hid them in recesses of the cave. 

Because they could not look upon the sun, 

Sith light is pure. And Satan called to them, — 

All in the dark, in his great rage he spake : 

" Up," quoth the dragon ; " it is time to work, 

Or we are all undone." And he did hiss. 

And there came shudderings over land and trees, 

A dimness after dawn. The earth threw out 

A blinding fog, that crept toward the cave, 



139 



140 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

And rolled up blank before it like a veil, — 
A curtain to conceal its habiters. 
Then did those spirits move upon the floor, 
Like pillars of darkness, and with eyes aglow. 
One had a helm for covering of the scars 
That seamed what rested of a goodly face ; 
He wore his vizor up, and all his words 
Were hollower than an echo from the hills : 
He was hight Make. And, lo, his fellow-fiend 
Came after, holding down his dastard head. 
Like one ashamed : now this for craft was great ; 
The dragon honored him. A third sat down 
Among them, covering with his wasted hand 
Somewhat that pained his breast. 

And when the fit 
Of thunder, and the sobbings of the wind. 
Were lulled, the dragon spoke with wrath and rage, 
And told them of his matters : " Look to this, 
If ye be loyal " ; adding, " Give your thoughts. 
And let me have your counsel in this need." 

One spirit rose and spake, and all the cave 

Was full of sighs, " The words of Make the Prince, 

Of him once delegate in Betelgeux : 

Whereas of late the manner is to change, 

We know not where 't will end ; and now my words 

Go thus : give way, be peaceable, lie still 

And strive not, else the world that we have won 

He may, to drive us out, reduce to naught. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

" For while I stood in mine obedience yet, 
Steering of Betelgeux my sun, behold, 
A moon, that evil ones did fill, rolled up 
Astray, and suddenly the Master came. 
And while, a million strong, like rooks they rose, 
He took and broke it, flung it here and there, 
And called a blast to drive the powder forth ; 
And it was fine as dust, and blurred the skies 
Farther than 't is from hence to this young sun. 
Spirits that passed upon their work that day. 
Cried out, ' How dusty 't is.' Behoves us, then, 
That we depart, as leaving unto Him 
This goodly world and goodly race of man. 
Not all are doomed ; hereafter it may be 
That we find place on it again. But if. 
Too zealous to preserve it, and the men 
Our servants, we oppose Him, He may come 
And choosing rather to undo His work 
Than strive with it for aye, make so an end." 

He sighing paused. Lo, then the serpent hissed 

In impotent rage, " Depart ! and how depart ! 

Can flesh be carried down where spirits wonn ? 

Or I, most miserable, hold my life 

Over the airless, bottomless gulf, and bide 

The bufFetings of yonder shoreless sea ? 

O death, thou terrible doom : O death, thou dread 

Of all that breathe." 

A spirit rose and spake ; 



141 



142 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

" Whereas in Heaven is power, is much to fear ; 
For this admired country we have marred. 
Whereas in Heaven is love (and there are days 
When yet I can recall what love was like), 
Is naught to fear. A threatening makes the whole, 
And clogged with strong conditions : ' O, repent, 
Man, and I turn.' He, therefore, powerful now, 
And more so, master, that ye bide in clay, 
Threateneth that He may save. They shall not die." 

The dragon said, " I tremble, I am sick." 

He said with pain of heart, " How am I fallen ! 

For I keep silence ; yea, I have withdrawn 

From haunting of His gates, and shouting up 

Defiance. Wherefore doth He hunt me out 

From this small world, this little one, that I 

Have been content to take unto myself, 

I here being loved and worshipped ? He knoweth 

How much I have foregone ; and must He stoop 

To whelm the world, and heave the floors o' the deep, 

Of purpose to pursue me from my place ? 

And since I gave men knowledge, must He take 

Their length of days whereby they perfect it ? 

So shall He scatter all that I have stored, 

And get them by degrading them. I know 

That in the end it is appointed me 

To fade. I will not fade before the time." 

A spirit rose, the third, a spirit ashamed 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

And subtle, and his face he turned aside : 

" Whereas," said he, " we strive against both power 

And love, behoves us that we strive aright. 

Now some of old my comrades, yesterday 

I met, as they did journey to appear 

In the Presence ; and I said, ' My master lieth 

Sick yonder, otherwise (for no decree 

There stands against it) he would also come 

And make obeisance with the sons of God.' 

They answered, naught denying. Therefore, lord, 

*T is certain that ye have admittance yet ; 

And what doth hinder ? Nothing but this breath. 

Were it not well to make an end, and die. 

And gain admittance to the King of kings ? 

What if thy slaves by thy consent should take 

And bear thee on their wings above the earth, 

And suddenly let fall, — how soon 't were o'er ! 

We should have fear and sinking at the heart ; 

But in a little moment we should see. 

Rising majestic from a ruined heap. 

The stately spirit that we served of yore." 

The serpent turned his subtle deadly eyes 

Upon the spirit, and hissed ; and sick with shame, 

It bowed itself together, and went back 

With hidden face. " This counsel is not good," 

The other twain made answer ; " look, my lord. 

Whereas 't is evil in thine eyes, in ours 

'T is evil also ; speak, for we perceive 



143 



144 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

That on thy tongue the words of counsel sit, 

Ready to fly to our right greedy ears, 

That long for them." And Satan, flattered thus 

(Forever may the serpent kind be charmed, 

With soft sweet words, and music deftly played)^ 

Replied, " Whereas I surely rule the world, 

Behoves that ye prepare for me a path, 

And that I, putting of my pains aside, 

Go stir rebellion in the mighty hearts 

O' the giants ; for He loveth them, and looks 

Full oft complacent on their glorious strength. 

He willeth that they yield, that He may spare •, 

But, by the blackness of my loathed den, 

I say they shall not, no, they shall not yield ; 

Go, therefore, take to you some harmless guise. 

And spread a rumor that I come. I, sick, 

Sorry, and aged, hasten. I have heard 

Whispers that out of heaven dropped unaware. 

I caught them up, and sith they bode men harm, 

I am ready for to comfort them ; yea, more. 

To counsel, and I will that they drive forth 

The women, the abhorred of my soul ; 

Let not a woman breathe where I shall pass. 

Lest the curse falleth, and she brui?e my head. 

Friv'^nds, if it be their mind to send for me 

An army, and triumphant draw me on 

In the golden car ye wot of, and with shouts, 

I would not that ye hinder thorn. Ah, then 

Will I make hard their hearts, and frrieve Him sore, 



A STORY OF DOOM. I45 

That loves them, O, by much too well to wet 
Their stately heads, and soil those locks of strength 
Under the fateful brine. Then afterward, 
While He doth reason vainly with them, I 
Will offer Him a pact : ' Great King, a pact, 
And men shall worship Thee, I say they shall. 
For I will bid them do it, yea, and leave 
To sacrifice their kind, so Thou my name 
Wilt suffer to be worshipped after Thine.' " 

" Yea, my lord Satan," quoth they, " do this thing, 
And let us hear thy words, for they are sweet." 

Then he made answer, " By a messenger 

Have I this day been warned. There is a deed 

I may not tell of, lest the people add 

Scorn to a Coming Greatness to their faults. 

Why this ? Who careth when about to slay. 

And slay indeed, how well they have deserved 

Death, whom he slayeth ? Therefore yet is hid 

A meaning of some mercy that will rob 

The nether world. Now look to it, — 'T were vain 

Albeit this deluge He would send indeed, 

That we expect the harvest ; He -v^^ould yet 

Be the Ma>ter-reaper ; for I heard it said. 

Them that be young and know Him not, and them 

That are bound and may not build, yea, more, their wives, 

AVhom. suffering not to hear the doom, they keep 

Joyous behind the curtains, every one 

7 J 



146 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

With maidens nourished in the house, and babes 

And children at her knees, — (then what remain !) 

He claimeth and will gather for His own. 

Now, therefore, it were good by guile to work, 

Princes, and suffer not the doom to fall. 

There is no evil like to love. I heard 

Him whisper it. Have I put on this flesh 

To ruin his two children beautiful, 

And shall my deed confound me in the end, 

Through awful imitation ? Love of God, 

I cry against thee ; thou art worst of all." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK IV. 



147 



NOW while these evil ones took counsel strange, 
The son of Lamech journeyed home ; and, lo ! 
A company came down, and struck the track 
As he did enter it. There rode in front 
Two horsemen, young and noble, and behind 
Were following slaves with tent gear ; others led 
Strong horses, others bare the instruments 
0' the chase, and in the rear dull camels lagged. 
Sighing, for they were burdened, and they loved 
The desert sands above that grassy vale. 

And as they met, those horsemen drew the rein, 
And fixed on him their grave untroubled eyes ; 
He in his regal grandeur walked alone. 
And had nor steed nor follower, and his mien 
Was grave and like to theirs. He said to them, 
" Fair sirs, whose are ye ? " They made answer cold, 
" The beautiful woman, sir, our mother dear, 
Niloiya, bear us to great Lamech's son." 
And he, replying, " I am he." They said, 
" We know it, sir. We have remembered you 
Through many seasons. Pray you let us not ; 
We fain would greet our mother." And they made 
Obeisance and passed on ; then all their train, 
Which while they spoke had halted, moved apace, 



148 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

And, while the silent father stood, went by, 
He gazing after, as a man that dreams ; 
For he was sick with their cold, quiet scorn, 
That seemed to say, " Father, we own you not, 
We love you not, for you have left us long, — 
So long, we care not that you come again." 

And while the sullen camels moved, he spake 

To him that led the last, " There are but two 

Of these my sons ; but where doth Japhet ride ? 

For I would see him." And the leader said, 

" Sir, ye shall find him, if ye follow up 

Along the track. Afore the noonday meal 

The young men, even our masters, bathed ; (there grows 

A clump of cedars by the bend of yon 

Clear river) — there did Japhet, after meat, 

Being right weary, lay him down and sleep. 

There, with a company of slaves and some 

Few camels, ye shall find him." 

And the man 

The father of these three, did let him pass. 

And struggle and give battle to his heart, 

Standing as motionless as pillar set 

To guide a wanderer in a pathless waste ; 

But all his strength went from him, and he strove 

Vainly to trample out and trample down 

The misery of his love unsatisfied, — 

Unutterable love flung in his face. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

Then he broke out in passionate words, that cried 
Against his lot, " I have lost my own, and won 
None other ; no, not one ! Alas, my sons ! 
That I have looked to for my solacing. 
In the bitterness to come. My children dear ! " 
And when from his own lips he heard those words, 
With passionate stirring of the heart, he wept. 

And none came near to comfort him. His face 

Was on tlie ground ; but, having wept, he rose 

Full hastily, and urged his way to find 

The river ; and in hollow of his hand 

Raised up the water to his brow : " This son, 

This other son of mine," he said, " shall see 

No tears upon my face." And he looked on, 

Beheld the camels, and a group of slaves 

Sitting apart from some one fast asleep. 

Where they had spread out webs of broidery work 

Under a cedar-tree ; and he came on, 

And when they made obeisance he declared 

His name, and said, " I will beside my son 

Sit till he wakeneth." So Japhet lay 

A-dreaming, and his father drew to him. 

He said, " This cannot scorn me yet"; and paused. 

Right angry with himself, because the youth, 

Albeit of stately growth, so languidly 

Lay with a listless smile upon his mouth, 

Tiiat was full sweet and pure ; and as he looked, 

He half forgot his trouble in his pride. 



149 



ISO 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



" And is this mine ? " said he, " my son ! mine own ! 

(God, thou art good !) O, if this turn away, 

That pang shall be past bearing. I must think 

That all the sweetness of his goodly face 

Is copied from his soul. How beautiful 

Are children to tlieir fathers ! Son, my heart 

Is greatly glad because of thee ; my life 

Shall lack of no completeness in the days 

To come. If I forget the joy of youth, 

In thee shall I be comforted ; ay, see 

My youth, a dearer than my own again." 

And when he ceased, the youth, with sleep content, 
Murmured a little, turned himself and woke. 

He woke, and opened on his father's face 

The darkness of his eyes ; but not a word 

The Master-shipwright said, — his lips were sealed ; 

He was not ready, for he feared to see 

This mouth curl up with scorn. And Japhet spoke, 

Full of the calm that cometh after sleep : 

" Sir, I have dreamed of you. I i)ray you, sir, 

What is your name ? " and even with his words 

His countenance changed. Tlie son of Laraech said, 

'* Why art thou sad ? What have I done to thee ? " 

And Japhet answered, " O, raethought I fled 

In the wilderness before a maddened beast, 

And you came up and slew it ; and I thought 

You were my father ; but I fear me, sir, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

My thoughts were vain." With that his father said, 
" Whate'er of blessing Thou reserv'st for me, 
God ! if Thou wilt not give to both, give here : 
Bless him with both Thy hands " ; and laid his own 
On Japhet's head. 

Then Japhet looked on him, 
Made quiet by content, and answered low, 
With faltering laughter, glad and reverent : " Sir, 
You are my father ? " " Ay," quoth he, " I am ! 
Kiss me, my son ; and let me hear my name, 
My much desired name, from your dear lips." 

Then after, rested, they betook them home : 

And Japhet, walking by the Master, thought, 

" I did not will to love this sire of mine ; 

But now I feel as if I had always known 

And loved him well ; truly, I see not why, 

But I would rather serve him than go free 

With my two brethren." And he said to him, 

" Father ! " — who answered, " I am here, my son." 

And Japhet said, " I pray you, sir, attend 

To this my answer : let me go with you. 

For, now I think on it, I do not love 

The chase, nor managing the steed, nor yet 

The arrows and the bow ; but rather you, 

For all you do and say, and you yourself. 

Are goodly and delightsome in mine eyes. 

I pray you, sir, wlien you go forth again. 

That I may also go." And he replied, 



51 



152 A STORY OF DOOM. 

*' I will tell thy speech unto the Highest ; He 
Shall answer it. But I would speak to thee 
Now of the days to come. Know thou, most dear 
To this thy father, that the drenched world, 
When risen clean washed from water, shall receive 
From thee her lordliest governors, from thee 
Daughters of noblest soul." 

So Japhet said, 
" Sir, I am young, but of my mother straight 
I will go ask a wife, that this may be. 
I pray you, therefore, as the manner is 
Of fathers, give me land that I may reap 
Corn for sustaining of my wife, and bruise 
The fruit of the vine to cheer her." But he said, 
" Dost thou forget ? or dost thou not believe, 
My son ? " He answered, " I did ne'er believe. 
My father, ere to-day ; but now, methinks. 
Whatever thou believest I believe, 
For thy beloved sake. If this then be 
As thou (I hear) hast said, and earth doth bear 
The last of her wheat harvests, and make ripe 
The latest of her grapes ; yet hear me, sir, 
None of the daughters shall be given to me 
If I be landless." Then his father said, 
" Lift up thine eyes toward the north, my son " 
And so he did. " Behold thy heritage ! " 
Quoth the world's prince and master, " far away 
Upon the side o' the north, where green the field 
Lies every season through, and where the dews 



A STORY OF DOOM. 133 

Of heaven are wholesome, shall thy children reign ; 

I part it to them, for the earth is mine ; 

The Highest gave it me : I make it theirs. 

Moreover, for thy marriage gift, behold 

The cedars where thou sleepedst ! There are vines ; 

And up the rise is growing wheat. I give 

(For all, alas ! is mine), — I give thee both 

For dowry, and my blessing." 

And he said, 
" Sir, you are good, and therefore the Most High 
Shall bless me also. Sir, I love you well." 



7* 



1^4 ^ STORY OF DOOM, 



BOOK V. 

AND when two days were over, Japhet said, 
" Mother, so please you, get a wife for me." 
The mother answered, " Dost thou mock me, son ? 
'T is not the manner of our kin to wed 
So young. Thou knowest it ; art thou not ashamed ? 
Thou carest not for a wife." And the youth blushed, 
And made for answer : " This, my father, saith 
The doom is nigh ; now therefore find a maid. 
Or else shall I be wifeless all my days. 
And as for me, I care not ; but the lands 
Are parted, and the goodliest share is mine. 
And lo ! my brethren are betrothed ; their maids 
Are with thee in the house. Then why not mine ? 
Didst thou not diligently search for these 
Among the noblest born of all the earth. 
And bring them up ? My sisters, dwell they not 
With women that bespake them for their sons ? 
Now, therefore, let a wife be found for me, 
Fair as the day, and gentle to my will 
As thou art to my father's." When she heard, 
Niloiya sighed* and answered, " It is well." 
And Japhet went out from her presence. 

Then 
Quoth the great Master : " Wherefore sought ye not, 
Woman, these many days, nor tired at all, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

Till ye had found, a maiden for my son? 

In this ye have done ill." Niloiya said : 

" Let not my lord be angry. All my soul 

Is sad : my lord hath walked afar so long, 

That some despise thee ; yea, our servants fail 

Lately to bring their stint of corn and wood. 

And, sir, thy household slaves do steal away 

To thy great father, and our lands lie waste, — 

None till them : therefore think the women scorn 

To give me, — whatsoever gems I send. 

And goodly raiment, — (yea, I seek afar. 

And sue with all desire and humbleness 

Through every master's house, but no one gives) — 

A daughter for my son." With that she ceased. 

Then said the Master : " Some thou hast with thee. 

Brought up among thy children, dutiful 

And fair ; thy father gave them for my slaves, — 

Children of them whom he brought captive forth 

From their own heritage." And she replied, 

Right scornfully : " Shall Japhet wed a slave ? " 

Then said the Master : " He shall wed : look thou 

To that. I say not he shall wed a slave ; 

But by the might of One that made him mine, 

I will not quit thee for my doomed way 

Until thou wilt betroth him. Therefore, haste. 

Beautiful woman, loved of me and mine. 

To bring a maiden, and to say, ' Behold 

A wife for Japhet.' " Then she answered, " Sir, 



55 



156 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

It shall be done." 

And forth Niloiya sped. 
She gathered all her jewels, — all she held 
Of costly or of rich, — and went and spake 
With some few slaves that yet abode with her, 
For daily they were fewer ; and went forth, 
With fair and flattering words, among her feres, 
And fain had wrought with them : and she had hope 
That made her sick, it was so faint ; and then 
She had fear, and after she had certainty, 
For all did scorn her. " Nay," they cried. " O fool ! 
If this be so, and on a watery world 
Ye think to rock, what matters if a wife 
Be free or bond ? There shall be none to rule, 
If she have freedom : if she have it not, 
None shall there be to serve." 

And she alit, 
The time being done, desponding at her door, 
And went behind a screen, where should have wrought 
The daughters of the captives ; but there wrought 
One only, and this rose from off the floor. 
Where she the river rush full deftly wove, 
And made obeisance. Then Niloiya said, 
" Where are thy fellows ? " And the maid replied, 
" Let not Niloiya, this my lady loved. 
Be angry ; they are fled since yesternight." 
Then said Niloiya, " Amarant, my slave. 
When have I called thee by thy name before ? " 
She answered, " Lady, never " ; and she took 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

And spread her broidered robe before her face. 

Niloiya spoke thus : " I am come to woe, 

And thou to honor." Saying this, she wept 

Passionate tears ; and all the damsel's soul 

Was full of yearning wonder, and her robe 

Slipped from her hand, and her right innocent face 

Was seen betwixt her locks of tawny hair 

That dropped about her knees, and her two eyes, 

Blue as the much-loved flower that rims the beck, 

Looked sweetly on Niloiya ; but she knew 

No meaning in her words ; and she drew nigh, 

And kneeled and said, " Will this my lady speak ? 

Her damsel is desirous of her words." 

Then said Niloiya, " I, thy mistress, sought 

A wife for Japhet, and no wife is found." 

And 3'et again she wept with grief of heart, 

Saying, " Ah me, miserable ! I must give 

A wife : the Master willeth it : a wife, 

Ah me ! unto the high-born. He will scorn 

His mother and reproach me. I must give — 

None else have I to give — a slave, — even thee." 

This further spake Niloiya : " I was good, — 

Had rue on thee, a tender sucking child, 

When they did tear thee from thy mother's breast ; 

I fed thee, gave thee shelter, and I taught 

Thy hands all cunning arts that women prize. 

But out on me ! my good is turned to ill. 

O, Japhet, well-beloved ! " And she rose up, 

And did restrain herself, saying, " Dost thou heed ? 



157 



158 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Behold, this thing shall be." The damsel sighed, 
" Lady, I do." Then went Niloiya forth. 

And Amarant murmured in her deep amaze, 
" Shall Japhet's little children kiss my mouth ? 
And will he sometimes take them from my arms, 
And almost care for me for their sweet sake ? 
I have not dared to think I loved him, — now 
I know it well : but O, the bitterness 
For him ! " And ending thus, the damsel rose, 
For Japhet entered. And she bowed herself 
Meekly and made obeisance, but her blood 
Ran cold about her heart, for all his face 
Was colored with his pass^ion. 

Japhet spoke : 
He said, " My father's slave " ; and she replied, 
Low drooping her fair head, " My master's son." 
And after that a silence fell on them, 
With trembling at her heart, and rage at his. 
And Japhet, mastered of his passion, sat 
And could not speak. O 1 cruel seemed his fate, 
So cruel her that told it, so unkind. 
His breast was full of wounded love and wrath 
Wrestling together ; and his eyes flashed out 
Indignant lights, as all amazed he took 
The insult home that she had offered him, 
Who should have held his honor dear. 

And, lo, 
The misery choked him and he cried in pain. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

" Go, g(^t thee forth '' ; but she, all white and still, 
Parted her lips to speak, and yet spake not, 
Nor moved. And Japhet rose up passionate, 
With lifted arm as one about to strike ; 
But she cried out and met him, and she held 
With desperate might his hand, and prayed to him, 
" Strike not, or else shall men from henceforth say, 
' Japhet is like to us.' " And he shook off 
The damsel, and he said, " I thank thee, slave ; 
For never have I stricken yet or child 
Or woman. Not for thy sake am I glad, 
Nay, but for mine. Get hence. Obey my words." 
Then Japhet lifted up his voice, and wept. 

And no more he restrained himself, but cried, 

With heavings of the heart, " O hateful day ! 

O day that shuts the door upon delight. 

A slave ! to wed a slave ! O loathed wife. 

Hated of Japhet's soul." And after, long. 

With face between his hands, he sat, his thoughts 

Sullen and sore ; then scorned himself, and saying, 

" I will not take her, I will die unwed. 

It is but that " ; lift up his eyes and saw 

The slave, and she was sitting at his feet ; 

And he, so greatly wondering that she dared 

The disobedience, looked her in the face 

Less angry than afraid, for pale she was 

As lily yet unsmiled on by the sun ; 

And he, his passion being spent, sighed out, 



159 



l6o ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

" Low am I fallen indeed. Hast thou no fear, 
That thou dost flout me ? " but she gave to him 
The sighing echo of his sigh, and mourned, 
" No." 

And he wondered, and he looked again, 
For in her heart there was a new-born pang. 
That cried ; but she, as mothers with tlieir young, 
Suffered, yet loved it ; and there shone a strange 
Grave sweetness in her blue unsullied eyes. 
And Japhet, leaning from the settle, thought, 
" What is it ? I will call her by her name. 
To comfort her, for also she is naught 
To blame ; and since I will not her to wife. 
She falls back from the freedom she had hoped." 
Then he said " Amarant " ; and the damsel drew 
Her eyes down slowly from the shaded sky 
Of even, and she said, " My master's son, 
Japhet " ; and Japhet said, " I am not wroth 
With thee, but wretched for my mother's deed. 
Because she shamed me." 

And the maiden said, 
" Doth not thy father love thee well, sweet sir ? " 
" Ay," quoth he, " well." She answered, " Let the heart 
Of Japhet, then, be merry. Go to him 
And say, ' The damsel whom my mother chose, 
Sits by her in the house ; but as for me. 
Sir, ere I take her, let me go with you 
To that same outland country. Also, sir, 
My damsel hath not worked as yet the robe 



A STORY OF DOOM. i6i 

Of her betrothal ' ; now, then, sith he loves, 
He will not say thee nay. Herein for awhile 
Is respite, and thy mother far and near 
Will seek again : it may be she will find 
A fair, free maiden." 

Japhet said, " O maid, 
Sweet are thy words ; but what if I return, 
And all again be as it is to-day ? " 
Then Amarant answered, " Some have died in youth ; 
But yet, I think not, sir, that I shall die. 
Though ye shall find it even as I had died, — 
Silent, for any words I might have said ; 
Empty, for any space I might have filled. 
Sir, I will steal away, and hide afar ; 
But if a wife be found, then will I bide 
And serve." He answered, " O, thy speech is good ; 
Now therefore (since my mother gave me thee), 
I will reward it ; I will find for thee 
A goodly husband, and will make him free 
Thee also." 

Then she started from his feet, 
And, red with shame and anger, flashed on him 
The passion of her eyes ; and put her hands 
With catching of the breath to her fair throat, 
And stood in her defiance lost to fear, 
Like some fair hind in desperate danger turned 
And brought to bay, and wild in her despair. 
But shortly, " I remember," quoth she, low. 
With raining down of tears ahd broken sighs. 



1 62 ^ STORY OF DOOM, 

" That I am Japhet's slave ; beseech you, sir, 

As ye were ever gentle, ay, and sweet 

Of language to me, be not harder now. 

Sir, I was yours to take ; I knew not, sir, 

That also ye might give me. Pray you, sir, 

Be pitiful, — be merciful to me, 

A slave." He said, " I thought to do thee good, 

For good hath been thy counsel " ; but she cried, 

" Good master, be you therefore pitiful 

To me, a slave." And Japhet wondered much 

At her, and at her beauty, for he thought, 

" None of the daughters are so fair as this, 

Nor stand with such a grace majestical ; 

She in her locks is like the travelling sun. 

Setting, all clad in coifing clouds of gold. 

And would she die unmatched ? " He said to her, 

" What ! wilt thou sail alone in yonder ship. 

And dwell alone hereafter ? " " Ay," she said, 

" And serve my mistress." 

" It is well," quoth he, 
And held his hand to her, as is the way 
Of masters. Then she kissed it, and she said, 
" Thanks for benevolence," and turned herself, 
Adding, '* I rest, sir, on your gracious words " ; 
Then stepped into the twilight and was gone. 

And Japhet, having found his father, said, 

" Sir, let me also journey when ye go." 

Who answered, " Hath thf mother done her part ? 



A STORY OF BOOM. 

fle said, " Yea, truly, and my damsel sits 
Before her in the house ; and also, sir, 
She said to me, ' I have not worked, as yet. 
The garment of betrothal.' " And he said, 
" 'T is not the manner of our kin to speak 
Concerning matters that a woman rules ; 
But hath thy mother brought a damsel home. 
And let her see thy face, then all is one 
As ye were wed." He answered, '* Even so, 
It matters nothing ; therefore hear me, sir : 
The damsel being mine, I am content 
To let her do according to her will ; 
And when we shall return, hO surely, sir, 
As I shall find her by my mother's side. 
Then will I take her " ; and he left to speak ; 
His father answering, " Son, thy words are good. 



163 



l64 ^ STORY OF DOOM, 



BOOK VI. 

NIGHT. Now a tent was pitched, and Japhet sat 
In the door and watched, for on a litter lay 
The father of his love. And he was sick 
To death ; but daily he would rouse him up, 
And stare upon the light, and ever say, 
" On, let us journey " ; but it came to pass 
That night, across their path a river ran, 
And they who served the father and the son 
Had pitched the tents beside it, and had made 
A fire, to scare away the savagery 
That roamed in that great forest, for their way 
Had led among the trees of God. 

The moon 
Shone on the river, like a silver road 
To lead them over ; but when Japhet looked, 
He said, " We shall not cross it. I shall lay 
This well-beloved head low in the leaves, — 
Not on the farther side." From time to time. 
The water-snakes would stir its glassy flow 
With curling undulations, and would lay 
Their heads along the bank, and, subtle-eyed, 
Consider those long spirting flames, that danced. 
When some red log would break and crumble down. 
And show his dark despondent eyes, that watched, 
Wearily, even Japhet's. But he cared 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



I6S 



Little ; and in the dark, that was not dark, 

But dimness of confused incertitude, 

Would move a-near all silently, and gaze 

And breathe, and shape itself, a maned thing 

With eyes ; and still he cared not, and the form 

Would falter, then recede, and melt again 

Into the farther shade. And Japhet said : 

" How long ? The moon hath grown again in heaven, 

After her caving twice, since we did leave 

The threshold of our home ; and now what 'vails 

That far on tumbled mountain snow we toiled, 

Hungry, and weary, all the day ; by night 

Waked with a dreadful trembling underneath, 

To look, while every cone smoked, and there ran 

Red brooks adown, that licked the forest up. 

While in the pale white ashes wading on 

We saw no stars? — what 'vails if afterward, 

Astonished with great silence, we did move 

Over the measureless, unknown desert mead ; 

While all the day, in rents and crevices. 

Would lie the lizard and the serpent kind, 

Drowsy ; and in the night take fearsome shapes. 

And oft-times woman-faced and woman-haired 

Would trail their snaky length, and curse and mourn ; 

Or there would wander up, when we were tired, 

Dark troops of evil ones, with eyes morose, 

Withstanding us, and staring ; — ! what 'vails 

That in the dread deep forest we have fought 

With following packs of wol\^s ? These men of might. 



1 66 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

Even the giants, shall not hear the doom 
My father came to tell them of. Ah, me ! 
If God indeed had sent him, would he lie 
(For he is stricken with a sore disease) 
Helpless outside their city ? " 

Then he rose, 
And put aside the curtains of the tent, 
To look upon his lather's face ; and lo ! 
Tlie tent being dark, he thought that somewhat sat 
Beside the litter ; and he set his eyes 
To see it, and saw not ; but only marked 
Where, fallen away from manhood and from power, 
His father lay. Then he came forth again. 
Trembling, and crouched beside the dull red fire, 
And murmured, " Now it is the second time : 
An old man, as I think (but scarcely saw). 
Dreadful of might. Its hair was white as wool : 
I dared not look ; perhaps I saw not aught. 
But only knew that it was there : the same 
Which walked beside us once when he did pray." 
And Japhet hid his face between his hands 
For fear, and grief of heart, and weariness 
Of watching ; and he slumbered not, but mourned 
To himself, a little moment, as it seemed, 
For sake of his loved father : then he lift 
His eyes, and day had dawned. Right suddenly 
The moon withheld her silver, and she hung 
Frail as a cloud. The ruddy flame that played, 
By night on dim, dusk trees, and on the flood. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 167 

Crept red amongst the logs, and all the world 
And all the water blushed and bloomed. The stars 
Were gone, and golden shafts came up, and touched 
The feathered heads of palms, and green was born 
Under the rosy cloud, and purples flew 
Like veils across the mountains ; and he saw. 
Winding athwart them, bathed in blissful peace, 
And the sacredness of morn, the battlements 
And out-posts of the giants ; and there ran 
On the other side the river, as it were, 
White mounds of marble, tabernacles fair, 
And towers below a line of inland cliff: 
These were their fastnesses, and here their homes. 

In valleys and the forest, all that night. 

There had been woe ; in every hollow place, 

And under walls, like drifted flowers, or snow. 

Women lay mourning ; for the serpent lodged 

That night within the gates, and had decreed, 

" I will (or ever I come) that ye drive out 

The women, the abhorred of my soul." 

Therefore, more beauteous than all climbing bloom, 

Purple and scarlet, cumbering of the boughs, 

Or flights of azure doves that lit to drink 

The water of the river ; or, new born. 

The quivering butterflies in companies. 

That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, 

Like living crocus beds, and also drank. 

And rose an orange cloud ; their hollowed hands 



l68 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

They dipped between the lilies, or with robes 
Full of ripe fruitage, sat and peeled and ate, 
Weeping ; or comforting their little ones. 
And lulling them with sorrowful long hymns 
Among the palms. 

So went the earlier morn. 
Then came a messenger, while Japhet sat 
Mournfully, and he said, ' The men of might 
Are willing ; let thy master, youth, appear." 
And Japhet said, " So be it " ; and he thought, 
" Now will I trust in God " ; and he went in 
And stood before his father, and he said, 
" My father " ; but the Master answered not, 
But gazed upon the curtains of his tent. 
Nor knew that one had called him. He was clad 
As ready for the journey, and his feet 
Were sandalled, and his staff was at his side ; 
And Japhet took the gown of sacrifice 
And spread it on him, and he laid his crown 
Upon his knees, and he went forth, and lift 
His hand to heaven, and cried, " My father's God ! 
But neither whisper came nor echo fell 
When he did listen. Therefore he went on : 
" Behold, I have a thing to say to thee. 
My father charged thy servant, ' Let not ruth 
Prevail with thee, to turn and bear me hence, 
For God appointed me my task, to preach 
Before the mighty.' I must do my part 
(O ! let it not displease thee), for he said 



A STORY OF DOOM. j^q 

But yesternight, ' When they shall send for me, 
Take me before them.' And I sware to him. 
I pray thee, therefore, count his life and mine 
Precious ; for I that sware, I will perform." 

Then cried he to his people, " Let us hence : 
Take up the litter." And they set their feet 
Toward the raft whereby men crossed that flood. 

And while they journeyed, lo, the giants sat 

Within the fairest hall where all were fair, 

Each on his carven throne, o'er-canopied 

With work of women. And the dragon lay 

In a place of honor ; and with subtlety 

He counselled them, for they did speak by turns ; 

And they being proud, might nothing master them, 

But guile alone : and he did fawn on them ; 

And when the younger taunted him, submiss 

He testified great humbleness, and cried, 

" A cruel God, forsooth ! but nay, O nay, 

I will not think it of Him, that He meant 

To threaten these. O, when I look on them, 

How doth my soul admire." 

And one stood forth, 
The youngest ; of his brethren, named " the Rock." 
" Speak out," quoth he, " thou toothless slavering thing, 
What is it ? thinkest thou that such as we 
Should be afraid ? What is this goodly doom ? " 
And Satan laughed upon him. " Lo," said he, 
8 



i;o ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

" Thou art not fully grown, and every one 

I look on, standeth liiglier by the head, 

Yea, and the t;houlder8, than do other men ; 

Forsooth, thy servant thought not thou wouldst fear, 

Thou and thy fellows." Then with one accord, 

" Speak," cried they ; and with mild persuasive eyes, 

And flattering tongue, he spoke. 

" Ye mighty ones. 
It hath been known to you these many days 
How that for piety I am much famed. 
I am exceeding pious : if I lie, 
As hath been whispered, it is but for sake 
Of God, and that ye should not think Him hard. 
For I am all for God. Now some have thought 
That He hath also (and it may be so 
Or yet may not be so) on me been hard ; 
Be not ye therefore wroth, for my poor sake ; 
I am contented to have earned your weal, 
Though I must therefore suffer. 

" Now to-day 
One Cometh, yea, an harmless man, a fool. 
Who boasts he hath a message from our God, 
And lest that you, for bravery of heart 
And stoutness, being angered with his prate, 
Should lift a hand, and kill him, I am here." 

Then spoke the Leader, " How now, snake ? Thy words 
Ring false. Why ever liest thou, snake, to us ? 
Thou coward ! none of us will see thee harmed. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 171 

I say thou liest. The land is strewed with slain ; 
Myself have hewn down companies, and blood 
Makes fertile all the field. Thou knowest it well ; 
And hast thou, driveller, panting sore for age, 
Come with a force to bid us spare one fool ? " 

And Satan answered, " Nay you ! be not wroth ; 

Yet true it is, and yet not all the truth. 

Your servant would have told the rest, if now 

(For fulness of your life being fretted sore 

At mine infi^rmities, which God in vain 

I supplicate to heal) ye had not caused 

My speech to stop." And he they called " the Oak " 

Made answer, " ^T is a good snake ; let him be. 

Why would ye fright the poor old craven beast ? 

Look how his lolling tongue doth foam for fear. 

Ye should have mercy, brethren, on the weak. 

Speak, dragon, thou hast leave ; make stout thy heart. 

What ! hast thou lied to this great company ? 

It was, we know it was, for humbleness ; 

Thou wert not willing to offend with truth." 

" Yea, majesties," quoth Satan, " thus it was," 

And lifted up appealing eyes, and groaned ; 

" O, can it be, compassionate as brave, 

And housed in cunning works themselves have reared, 

And served in gold, and warmed with minivere, 

And ruling nobly, — that He, not content 

Unless alone He reigneth, looks to bend 



\J2 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Or break them in, like slaves to cry to Him, 
' What is Thy will with us, O Master dear ? ' 
Or else to eat of death ? 

" For my part, lords, 
I cannot think it : for my piety 
And reason, which I also share with you. 
Are my best lights, and ever counsel me, 
' Believe not aught against thy God ; believe, 
Since thou canst never reach to do Him wrong, 
That He will never stoop to do thee wrong. 
Is He not just and equal, yea, and kind ? ' 
Therefore, O majesties, it is my mind 
Concerning him ye wot of, thus to think 
The message is not like what I have learned 
By reason and experience, of the God. 
Therefore no message 't is. The man is mad." 
Thereat the great Leader laughed for scorn. "Hold, 

snake ; 
If God be just, there shall be reckoning days. 
We rather would He were a partial God, 
And being strong, He sided with the strong. 
Turn now thy reason to the other side. 
And speak for that ; for as to justice, snake, 
We would have none of it." 

And Satan fawned : 
" My lord is pleased to mock at my poor wit ; 
Yet in my pious fashion I must talk : 
For say that God was wroth with man, and came 
And slew him, that should make an empty world, 
But not a better nation." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 173 

This replied, 
" Truth, dragon, yet He is not bound to mean 
A better nation ; may be, He designs, 
If none will turn again, a punishment 
Upon an evil one." 

And Satan cried, 
" Alas ! my heart being full of love for men, 
I cannot choose but think of God as like 
To me ; and yet my piety concludes. 
Since He will have your fear, that love alone 
Sufficeth not, and I admire, and say, 
* Give me, O friends, your love, and give to God 
Your fear.' " But they cried out in wrath and rage, 
" AVe are not strong that any we will fear, 
Nor specially a foe that means us ill." 



174 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK VII. 

AND while he spoke there was a noise without ; 
The curtains of the door were flung aside, 
And some with heavy feet bare in, and set 
A litter on the floor. 

The Master lay 
Upon it, but his eyes were dimmed and set ; 
And Japhet, in despairing weariness, 
Leaned it beside. He marked the mighty ones, 
Silent for pride of heart, and in his place 
The jewelled dragon ; and the dragon laughed, 
And subtly peered at him, till Japhet shook 
With rage and fear. The snaky wonder cried. 
Hissing, " Thou brown-haired youth, come up to me ; 
I fain would have thee for my shrine afar. 
To serve among an host as beautiful 
As thou ; draw near." It hissed, and Japhet felt 
Horrible drawings, and cried out in fear, 
" Father ! O help, the serpent draweth me ! " 
And struggled and grew faint, as in the toils 
A netted bird. But still his father lay 
Unconscious, and the mighty did not speak, 
But half in fear and half for wonderment 
Beheld. And yet again the dragon laughed. 
And leered at him and hissed ; and Japhet strove 
Vainly to take away his spell-set eyes. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

And moved to go to him, till piercingly- 
Crying out, " God ! forbid it, God in heaven ! " 
The dragon lowered his head, and shut his eyes 
As feigning sleep ; and, suddenly released, 
He fell back staggering ; and at noise of it, 
And clash of Japhet's weapons on the floor, 
And Japhet's voice crying out, " I loathe thee, snake ! 
I hate thee ! O, I hate thee ! " came again, 
The senses of the shipwright ; and he, moved, 
And looking, as one 'mazed, distressfully 
Upon the mighty, said, '* One called on God : 
Where is my God ? If God have need of me, 
Let Him come down and touch my lips with strength, 
Or dying I shall die." 

It came to pass. 
While he was speaking, that the curtains swayed ; 
A rushing wind did move tliroughout the place. 
And all the pillars shook, and on the head 
Of Noah the hair was lifted, and there played 
A somewhat, as it were a light, upon 
His breast ; then fell a darkness, and men heard 
A whisper as of one that spake. With that. 
The daunted mighty ones kept silent watch 
Until the wind had ceased and darkness fled. 
When it grew light, there curled a cloud of smoke 
From many censers where the dragon lay. 
It hid him. He had called his ministrants. 
And bid them veil him thus, that none might look ; 
Also the folk who came with Noah h:id fled. 



175 



176 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

But Noah was seen, for he stood up erect, 
And leaned on Japhet's hand. Then, after pause, 
The Leader said, " My brethren, it were well 
(For naught we fear) to let this sorcerer speak." 
And they did reach toward the man their staves, 
And cry with loud accord, " Hail, sorcerer, hail ! " 

And he made answer, " Hail ! I am a man 

That is a shipwright. I was born afar 

To Lamech, him that reigns a king, to wit. 

Over the land of Jalal. Majesties, 

I bring a message, — lay you it to heart ; 

For there is wrath in heaven : my God is wroth. 

' Prepare your houses, or I come,' saith He, 

' A Judge.' Now, therefore, say not in your hearts, 

' What have we done ? ' Your dogs may answer that. 

To make whom fiercer for the chase, ye feed 

With captives whom ye slew not in the war, 

But saved alive, and living throw to them 

Daily. Your wives may answer that, whose babes 

Their firstborn ye do take and offer up 

To this abhorred snake, while yet the milk 

Is in their innocent mouths, — your maiden babes 

Tender. Your slaves may answer that, — the gangs 

Whose eyes ye did put out to make them work 

By night unwitting (yea, by multitudes 

They work upon the wheelln chains). Your friends 

May answer that, — (their bleached bones fry out.) 

For ye did, VN^ickedlv, to eat iheir lands. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

Turn on their valleys, in a time of peace, 
The rivers, and they, choking in the night, 
Died unavenged. But rather (for I leave 
To tell of more, the time would be so long 
To do it, and your time, O mighty ones. 
Is short), — but rather say, ' We sinners know- 
Why the Judge standeth at the door,' and turn 
While yet there may be respite, and repent. 

" ' Or else,' saith He that formed you, ' I swear. 

By all the silence of the times to come, 

By the solemnities of death, — yea, more. 

By Mine own power and love which ye have scorned. 

That I will come. I will command the clouds. 

And raining they shall rain ; yea, I will stir 

With all my storms the ocean for your sake. 

And break for you the boundary of the deep. 

" ' Then shall the mighty mourn. 

Should I forbear, 
That have been patient ? I will not forbear ! 
For yet,' saith He, ' the weak cry out ; for yet 
The little ones do languish ; and the slave 
Lifts up to Me his chain. I therefore, I 
Will hear them. I by death will scatter you ; 
Yea, and by death will draw them to My breast. 
And gather them to peace. 

" ' But yet,' saith He, 
' Repent, and turn you. Wherefore will ye die? ' 

8* L 



177 



178 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



" Turn then, turn, while yet the enemy 
Untamed of man fatefully moans afar ; 
For if ye will not turn, the doom is near. 
Then shall the crested wave make sport, and beat 
You mighty at your doors. Will ye be wroth ? 
Will ye forbid it ? Monsters of the deep 
Shall suckle in your palaces their young. 
And swim atween your hangings, all of them 
Costly with broidered work, and rare with gold 
And white and scarlet (there did ye oppress, — 
There did ye make you vile) ; but ye shall lie 
Meekly, and storm and wind shall rage above. 
And urge the weltering wave. 

" ' Yet,' saith thy God, 
' Son,' ay, to each of you He saith, ' O son, 
Made in My image, beautiful and strong, 
Why wilt thou die ? Thy Father loves thee well. 
Repent and turn thee from thine evil ways, v 

O son ! and no more dare the wrath of love. 
Live for thy Father's sake that formed thee. 
Why wilt thou die ? ' Here will I make an end." 

Now ever on his dais the dragon lay, 
Feigning to sleep ; and all the mighty ones 
Were wroth, and chided, some against the woe, 
And some at whom the sorcerer they had named, - 
Some at their fellows, for the younger sort, — 
As men the less acquaint with deeds of blood, 
And given to learning and the arts of peace 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

(Their fathers having crushed rebellion out 
Before their time) — lent favorable ears. 
They said, " A man, or false or fanatic, 
May claim good audience if he fill our ears 
With what is strange : and we would hear again." 

The Leader said, " An audience hath been given. 
The man hath spoken, and his words are naught ; 
A feeble threatener, with a foolish threat. 
And it is not our manner that we sit 
Beyond the noonday " ; then they grandly rose, 
A stalwart crowd, and with their Leader moved 
To the tones of harping, and the beat of shawms. 
And the noise of pipes, away. But some were left 
About the Master ; and the feigning snake 
Couched on his dais. 

Then one to Japhet said, 
One called " the Cedar-Tree," " Dost thou, too, think 
To reign upon our lands when we lie drowned ? " 
And Japhet said, " I think not, nor desire, 
Nor in my heart consent, but that ye swear 
Allegiance to the God, and live." He cried. 
To one surnamed " the Pine," — " Brother, behooves 
That deep we cut our names in yonder crag, 
Else when this youth returns, his sons may ask 
Our names, and he may answer, * Matters not, 
For my part I forget them.' " 

Japhet said, 
" They might do worse than that, they might deny 



179 



l8o ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

That such as you have ever been." With that 
They answered, " No, thou dost not think it, no ! " 
And Japhet, being chafed, replied in heat, 
" And wherefore ? if ye say of what is sworn, 
* He will not do it,' shall it be more hard 
For future men, if any talk on it. 
To say, * He did not do it ' ? " They replied. 
With laughter, " Lo you ! he is stout with us. 
And yet he cowered before the poor old snake. 
Sirrah, when you are saved, we pray you now 
To bear our might in mind, — do, sirrah, do ; 
And likewise tell your sons, ' " The Cedar Tree " 
Was a good giant, for he struck me not. 
Though he was young and full of sport, and though 
I taunted him.' " 

With that they also passed. 
But there remained who with the shipwright spoke 
" How wilt thou certify to us thy truth ? ' 
And he related to them all his ways 
From the beginning : of the Voice that called ; 
Moreover, how the ship of doom was built. 

And one made answer, " Shall the mighty God 

Talk with a man of wooden beams and bars ? 

No, thou mad preacher, no. If He, Eterne, 

Be ordering of His fir infinitudes, 

And darkness cloud a world, it is but chance, 

As if the shadow of His hand had fallen 

On one that He forgot, and troubled it." 



A STORY OF DOOM. igi 

Then said the Master, " Yet, — who told thee so ? " 

And from his dais the feigaing serpent hissed; 
" Preacher, the light within, it was that shined, 
And told him so. The pious will have dread 
Him to declare such as ye rashly told. 
The course of God is one. It likes not us 
To think of Him as being acquaint with change : 
It were beneath Him. Nay, the finished earth 
Is left to her great masters. They must rule ; 
They do ; and I have set myself between, — 
A visible thing for worship, sith His face 
(For He is hard) He showeth not to men. 
Yea, I have set myself 'twixt God and man. 
To be interpreter, and teach mankind 
A pious lesson by my piety, 
He loveth not, nor hateth, nor desires, — 
It were beneath Him." 

And the Master said, 
" Thou liest. Thou wouldst lie away the world, 
If He, whom thou hast dared speak against, 
Would suffer it." " I may not chide with thee," 
It answered, " now ; but if there come such time 
As thou hast prophesied, as I now reign 
In all men's sight, shall ray dominion then 
Reach to be mighty in their souls. Thou too 
Shalt feel it, prophet." And he lowered his head. 

Then quoth the Leader of the young men : " Sir, 



1 82 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

We scorn you not ; sgeak further ; yet our thought 
First answer. Not but by a miracle 
Can this thing be. The fashion of the world 
We heretofore have never known to change ; 
And will God change it now ? " 

He then replied : 
" What is thy thought ? There is no miracle ? 
There is a great one, which thou hast not read, 
And never shalt escape. Thyself, O man, 
Thou art the miracle. Lo, if thou sayest, 
' I am one, and fashioned like the gracious world, 
Red clay is all my make, myself, my whole, 
And not my habitation,' then thy sleep 
Shall give thee wings to play among the rays 
O' the morning. If thy thought be, ' I am one, — 
A spirit among spirits, — and the world 
A dream my spirit dreameth of, my dream 
Being all,' the dominating mountains strong 
Shall not for that forbear to take thy bi-eath, 
And rage with all their winds, and beat thee back, 
And beat thee down when thou wouldst set thy feet 
Upon their awful crests. Ay, thou thyself, 
Being in the world and of the woild, thyself 
Hast breathed in breath from Him that made the world. 
Thou dost inherit, as thy Maker's son. 
That which He is, and that which He hath made : 
Thon art thy Father's copy of Himself, — 
Thou art thy Father's miracle. 

Behold 
He buildeth up the stars in companies ; 



A STORY OF DOOM. 183 

He made for them a law. To man He said, 

* Freely I give thee freedom.' What remains ? 
O, it remains, if thou, the image of God, 

Wilt reason well, that thou shalt know His ways ; 
But first thou must be loyal, — love, O man. 
Thy Father, — hearken when He pleads with thee, 
For there is something left of Him e'en now, — 
A witness for thy Father in thy soul, 
Albeit thy better state thou hast foregone. 

" Now, then, be still, and think not in thy soul, 

* The rivers in their course forever run, 
And turn not from it. He is like to them 

Who made them.' Think the rather, ' With my foot 

I have turned the rivers from their ancient way. 

To water grasses that were fading. What ! 

Is God my Father as the river wave, 

That yet descendeth, like the lesser thing 

He made, and not like me, a living son. 

That changed the watercourse to suit his will ? * 

" Man is the miracle in nature. God 

Is the One Miracle to man. Behold, 

' There is a God,' thou sayest. Thou sayest well : 

In that thou sayest all. To Be is more 

Of wonderful, than being, to have wrought. 

Or reigned, or rested. 

Hold then there, content ; 
Learn that to love is the one way to know, 



1 84 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

Or God or man : it is not love received 
That maketh man to know the inner life 
Of them that love him ; his own love bestowed 
Shall do it. Love thy Father, and no more 
His doings shall be strange. Thou shalt not fret 
At any counsel, then, that He will send, — 
No, nor rebel, albeit He have with thee 
Great reservations. Know, to Be is more 
Than to have acted ; yea, or after rest 
And patience, to have risen and been wroth, 
Broken the sequence of an ordered earth, 
And troubled nations." 

Then the dragon sighed. 
" Poor fanatic," quoth he, " thou speakest well. 
Would I were like thee, for thy faith is strong, 
Albeit thy senses wander. Yea, good sooth, 
My masters, let us not despise, but learn 
Fresh loyalty from this poor loyal soul. 
Let us go forth — (myself will also go 
To head you) — and do sacrifice ; for that, 
We know, is pleasing to the mighty God : 
But as for building many arks of wood, 
O majesties ! when He shall counsel you 
Himself, then build. What say you, shall it be 
An hundred oxen, — fat, well liking, white "^ 
An hundred ? why, a thousand were not much 
To such as you." Then Noah lift up his arms 
To heaven, and cried, " Thou aged shape of sin. 
The Lord rebuke thee." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK vin. 



185 



THEN one ran, crying, while Niloiya wrought, 
" The Master cometh ! " and she went within 
To adorn herself for meeting him. And Shera 
Went forth and talked with Japhet in the field. 
And said, " Is it well, my brother ? " He replied, 
" Well ! and, I pray you, is it well at home ? " 

But Shem made answer, " Can a house be well. 
If he that should command it bides afar ? 
Yet well is thee, because a fair free maid 
Is found to wed thee ; and they bring her in 
This day at sundown. Therefore is much haste 
To cover thick with costly webs the floor. 
And pluck and cover thick the same with leaves 
Of all sweet herbs, — I warrant, ye shall hear 
No footfall where she treadeth ; and the seats 
Are ready, spread with robes ; the tables set 
With golden baskets, red pomegranates shred 
To fill them ; and the rubied censers smoke, 
Heaped up with ambergris and cinnamon, 
And frankincense and cedar." 

Japhet said, 
" I will betroth her to me straight " ; and want 
(Yet labored he with sore disquietude) 
To gather grapes, and reap and bind the sheaf 



1 86 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

For his betrothal. And his brother spake, 

" Where is our father ? doth he preach to-day ? " 

And Japhet answered, " Yea. He said to me, 

' Go forward ; I will follow when the folk 

By yonder mountain-hold I shall have warned.' " 

And Shem replied, " How thinkest thou ? — thine ears 
Have heard him oft." He answered, " I do think 
These be the last days of this old fair world." 

Then he did tell him of the giant folk : 

How they, than he, were taller by the head ; 

How one must stride that will ascend the steps 

That lead to their wide halls ; and how they drave, 

With manful shouts, the mammoth to the north ; 

And how the talking dragon lied and fawned. 

They seated proudly on their ivory thrones, 

And scorning hira : and of their peaked hoods, 

And garments w^rought upon, each with the tale 

Of him that wore it, — all his manful deeds 

(Yea, and about their skirts were effigies 

Of kings that they had slain ; and some, whose swords 

Many had pierced, wore vestures all of red. 

To signify much blood) : and of their pride 

He told, but of the vision in the tent 

He told him not. 

And when they reached the house, 
Niloiya met them, and to Japhet cried, 
" All hail, right fortunate ! Lo, I have found 



A STORY OF DOOM. 187 

A maid. And now thou hast done well to reap 
The late ripe corn." So he went in with her, 
And she did talk with him right motherly : 
" It hath been fully told me how ye loathed 
To wed thy father's slave ; yea, she herself, 
Did she not all declare to me ? " 

He said, 
" Yet is thy damsel fair, and wise of heart." 
*' Yea," quoth his mother ; " she made clear to me 
How ye did weep, my son, and ye did vow, 
' I will not take her ! ' Now it was not I 
That wrought to have it so."' And he replied, 
" I know it." Quoth the mother, *' It is well ; 
For that same cause is laughter in my heart." 
" But she is sweet of language," Japhet said. 
" Ay," quoth Niloiya, " and thy wife no less 
Whom thou shalt wed anon, — forsooth, anon, — 
It is a lucky hour. Thou wilt ? " He said, 
" I will." And Japhet laid the slender sheaf 
From off his shoulder, and he said, " Behold, 
My father ! " Then Niloiya turned herself, 
And lo ! the shipwright stood. " All hail ! " quoth she. 
And bowed herself, and kissed him on the mouth ; 
But while she spake with him, sorely he sighed ; 
And she did hang about his neck the robe 
Of feasting, and she poured upon his hands 
Clear water, and anointed him, and set 
Before him bread. 

And Japhet said to him. 



1 88 A STORY OF DOOM. 

" My father, my beloved, wilt thou yet 

Be sad because of scorning ? Eat this day ; 

For as an angel in their eyes thou art 

Who stand before thee." But he answered, " Peace ! 

Thy words are wide." 

And when Niloiya heard, 
She said, " Is this a time for mirth of heart 
And wine ? Behold, I thought to wed my son, 
Even this Japhet ; but is this a time. 
When sad is he to whom is my desire, 
And lying under sorrow as from God ? " 

He answered, " Yea, it is a time of times ; 
Bring in the maid." Niloiya said, " The maid 
That first I spoke on, shall not Japhet wed ; 
It likes not her, nor yet it likes not me. 
But I have found another ; yea, good sooth, 
The damsel will not tarry, she will come 
With all her slaves by sundown." 

And she said, 
" Comfort thy heart, and eat ; moreover, know 
How that thy great work even to-day is done. 
Sir, thy great ship is finished, and the folk 
(For I, according to thy will, have paid 
All that was left us to them for theii* wage,) 
Have brought, as to a storehouse, flour of wheat, 
Honey and oil, — much victual; yea, and fruits. 
Curtains and household gear. And, sir, they sa- 
It is thy will to take it for thy hold 



A STORY OF DOOM. 189 

Our fastness and abode." He answered, " Yea, 
Else wherefore was it built ? " She said, " Good sir, 
I pray you make us not the whole earth's scorn. 
And now, to-morrow in thy father's house 
Is a great feast, and weddings are toward ; 
Let be the ship, till after, for thy words 
Have ever been, ' If God shall send a flood, 
There will I dwell ' ; I pray you therefore wait 
At least till He dotu s<tnd it." 

And he turned, 
And answered nothing. Now the sun was low 
While yet she spake ; and Japhet came to them 
In goodly raiment, and upon his arm 
The garment of betrothal. And Avith that 
A noise, and then brake in a woman slave 
And Amarant. This, with folding of her hands, 
Did say full meekly, " If I do offend, 
Yet have not I been willing to offend ; 
For now this woman will not be denied 
Herself to tell her errand." 

And they sat. 
Then spoke the woman, '• If I do offend, 
Pray you forgive the bondslave, for her tongue 
Is for her mistress. ' Lo ! ' my mistress saith, 
" Put off thy braver}', bridf'groom ; fold away. 
Mother, thy webs of pride, thy costly robes 
Woven of many colors. We have heard * 

Thy master. Lo, to-day right evil things 
He prophesied to us, that were his friends ; 



iQo A STony OF doom. 

Therefore, my answer: — God do so to me ; 
Yea, God do so to me, more also, more 
Than He did threaten, if my damsel's foot 
Ever draw nigh thy door.' " 

And when she heard, 
Niloiya sat amazed, in grief of soul. 
But Japhet came unto the slave, where low 
She bowed herself for fear. He said, " Depart ; 
Say to thy mistress, ' It is well.' " With that 
She turned herself, and she made haste to flee, 
Lest any, for those evil words she brought, 
Would smite her. But the bondmaid of the house 
Lift up her hand and said, '' If 1 offend, 
It was not of my heart : tli}^ damsel knew 
Naught of this matter." And he held to her 
His hand and touched her, and said, " Amarant ! " 
And when she looked upon him, she did take 
And spread before her face her radiant locks, 
Trembling. And Japhet said, " Lift up thy face, 

fairest of the daugliters, thy fair face ; 

For, lo ! the bridegroom standeih with the robe 
Of thy betrothal ! " — and he took her locks 
In his two hands to part them from her brow, 
And laid them on her shoulders ; and he said, 
" Sweet are the blushes of thy face," and put 
The robe upon her, having said, " Behold, 

1 have repented me ; and oft by night, 

In the waste wilderness, while all things slept, 
1 thougiit upon thy words, for they were sweet. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

" For this I make thee free. And now thyself 
Art loveliest in mine eyes ; I look, and lo ! 
Thou art of beauty more than any thought 
I had concerning thee. Let, then, this robe, 
Wrought on with imagery of fruitful bough, 
And graceful leaf, and birds with tender eyes, 
Cover the ripples of thy tawny hair." 
So when she held her peace, he brought her nigh 
To hear the speech of wedlock ; ay, he took 
The golden cup of wine to drink with her, 
And laid the sheaf upon her arms. He said, 
" Like as my fathers in the older days 
Led home the daughters whom they chose, do I ; 
Like as they said, ' Mine honor have I set 
Upon thy head ! ' do I. Eat of my bread, 
Rule in my house, be mistress of my slaves, 
And mother of my children." 

And he brought 
The damsel to his father, saying, " Behold 
My wife ! I have betrothed her to myself ; 
I pray you, kiss her." And the Master did ; 
He said, " Be mother of a multitude, 
And let them to their father even so 
Be found, as he is found to me." 

With that 
She answered, " Let this woman, sir, find grace 
And favor in your sight." 

And Japhet said, 
" Sweet mother, I have wed the maid ye chose 



191 



192 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



And brought me first. I leave her in thy hand ; 
Have care on her, till I shall come again 
And ask her of thee." So they went apart, 
He and his father to the marriage feast. 



A STORY OF DOOM 



BOOK IX. 



193 



THE prayer of Noah. The man went forth by night 
And listened ; and the earth was dark and still, 
And he was driven of his great distress 
Into the forest ; but the birds of night 
Sang sweetly ; and he fell upon his face, 
And cried, " God, God ! Thy billows and Thy waves 
Have swallowed up my soul. 

" Where is my God ? 
For I have somewhat yet to plead with Thee ; 
For I have walked the strands of Thy great deep, 
Heard the dull thunder of its rage afar, 
And its dread moaning. O, the field is sweet, — 
Spare it. The delicate woods make white their trees 
With blossom, — spare them. Life is sweet ; behold 
There is much cattle, and the wild and tame. 
Father, do feed in quiet, — spare them. 

« God ! 
Where is my God ? The long wave doth not rear 
Her ghostly crest to lick the forest up, 
And like a chief in battle fall, — not yet. 
The lightnings pour not down, from ragged holes 
In heaven, the torment of their forked tongues, 
And, like fell serpents, dart and sting, — not yet. 
The winds awake not, with their awful wings 
To winnow, even as chafi^, from out their track, 

9 M 



194 



A STORY OF DOOM, 



All that withstandeth, and bring down the pride 
Of all things strong and all things high — 

" Not yet. 
O, let it not be yet. Where is my God ? 
How am I saved, if I and mine be saved 
Alone ? I am not saved, for I have loved 
My country and ray kin. Must I, Thy thrall, 
Over their lands be lord when they are gone ? 
I would not : spare them, Mighty. Spare Thyself, 
For Thou dost love them greatly, — and if not . . . .*' 

Another praying unremote, a Voice 
Calm as the solitude between wide stars. 

" Where is my God, who loveth this lost world, — 

Lost from its place and name, but won for Thee ? 

Where is my multitude, my multitude. 

That I shall gather? " And white smoke went up 

From incense that was burning, but there gleamed 

No light of fire, save dimly to reveal 

The whiteness rising, as the prayer of him 

That mourned. " My God, a})p"ear for me, appear ; 

Give me my multitude, for it is mine. 

The bitterness of death I have not feared. 

To-morrow shall Thy courts, O God, be full. 

Then shall the captive from his bonds go free, 

Then shall the thrall find rest, that knew not rest 

From labor and from blows. The sorrowful — 

That said of joy, ' Wliat is it ? ' and of songs, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 195 

* We have not heard them * — shall be glad and sing ; 
Then shall the little ones that knew not Thee, 
And such as heard not of Thee, see Thy face. 
And seeing, dwell content." 

The prayer of Noah. 
He cried out in the darkness, " Hear, O God, 
Hear Him : hear this one ; through the gates of death, 
If life be all past praying for, give 
To Thy great multitude a way to peace ; 
Give them to Him. 

" But yet," said he, « O yet, 
If there be respite for the terrible, 
The proud, yea, such as scorn Thee, — and if not .... 
Let not mine eyes behold their fall." 

He cried, 
" Forgive. I have not done Thy work, Great Judge, 
With a perfect heart ; I have but half believed, 
"While in accustomed language I have warned ; 
And now there is no more to do, no place 
For my repentance, yea, no hour remains 
For doing of that work again. O, lost. 
Lost world ! " And while he prayed, the daylight dawned. 



And Noah went up into the ship, and sat 
Before the Lord. And all was still ; and now 
In that great quietness the sun came up. 
And there were marks across it, as it were 



196 A STORY OF DOOM. 

The shadow of a Hand upon the sun, — 
Three fingers dark and dread, and afterward 
There rose a white, thick mist, that peacefully 
Folded the fair earth in her funeral shroud, 
Tlie earth that gave no token, save that now 
There fell a little trembling under foot. 

And Noah went down, and took and hid his face 

Behind his mantle, saying, '• I have made 

Great preparation, and it may be yet, 

Beside my house, whom I did charge to come 

This day to meet me, there may enter in 

Many that yesternight thought scorn of all 

My bidding." And because the fog was thick, 

lie said, " Forbid it. Heaven, if such there be, 

That they should miss the way." And even then 

Tliere was a noise of weeping and lament ; 

The words of them that were affrighted, yea, 

And cried for grief of heart. There came to him 

The mother and her children, and they cried, 

" Speak, father, what is this ? What hast thou done ? " 

And when he lifted up his face, he saw 

Japhet, his well-beloved, where he stood 

Apart ; and Amarant h^aned upon his breast, 

And hid her face, for she was sore afraid ; 

And lo ! the robes of her betrothal gleamed 

White in the deadly gloom. 

And at his feet 
The wives of his two other sons did kneel, 
And wring their hands. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

One cried, " O, speak to us ; 
We are affrighted ; we have dreamed a dream, 
Each to hei-self. For me, I saw in mine 
The grave old angels, like to shepherds, walk, 
Much cattle following them. Thy daughter looked, 
And they did enter here." 

The other lay 
And moaned, " Alas ! O father, for my dream 
Was evil : lo, I heard when it was dark, 
I heard two wicked ones contend for me. 
One said, ' And wherefore should this woman live, 
When only for her children, and for her. 
Is woe and degradation ? ' Then he laughed. 
The other crying, ' Let alone, O prince ; 
Hinder her not to live and bear much seed, 
Because I hate her.' " 

But he said, " Rise up, 
Daughters of Noah, for I have learned no words 
To comfort you." Then spake her lord to her, 
" Peace ! or I swear that for thy dream, myself 
Will hate thee also." 

And Niloiya said, 
" My sons, if one of you will hear my words, 
Go now, look out, and tell me of the day, 
How fares it ? " 

And the fateful darkness grew. 
But Shem went up to do his mother's will ; 
And all was one as though the frighted earth 
Quivered and fell a-trembling ; then they hid 



19; 



198 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Their faces every one, till he returned, 

And bpake not. "Nay," they cried, "what hast thou 

seen ? 
O, is it come to this ? " He answered them, 
" Tiie door is shut." 



Notes to "A Story op Doom. 



Page 100. 

The name of the patriarch's wife is intended to be pronounced 
Nigh-loi-ya. 

Of the three sons of Noah, — Shem, Ham, and Japhet, — I have called 
Japhet the youngest (because he is alwaj's named last), and have sup- 
posed that, in the genealogies where he is called "Japhet the elder," 
he may have received the epithet because by that time there were 
younger Japhets. 

Page 167. 

The quivering butterflies in companies, 
That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, 
Like living crocus beds. 

This beautiful comparison is taken from "The Naturalist on the 
River Amazons." "Vast numbers of orange-colored butterflies con- 
gregated on the moist sands. They assembled in densely-packed 
masses, sometimes two or three yards in circumference, their wings 
all held in an upright position, so that the sands looked as though 
variegated with beds of crocuses.^^ 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



SAILING BEYOND SEAS. 



{Old Style,) 




ETHOUGHT the stars were blinking bright, 
And the old brig's sails unfurled ; 
I said, " I will sail to my love this night 
At the other side of the world." 
I stepped aboard, — we sailed so fast, — 

The sun shot up from the bourne ; 
But a dove that perched upon the mast 
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 
O fair dove ! O fond dove ! 

And dove with the white breast, 
Let me alone, the dream is my own, 
And my heart is full of rest. 



My true love fares on this great hill, 
Feeding his sheep for aye ; 

I looked in his hut, but all was still, 
My love was gone away. 
9* 



202 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

I went to gaze in the forest creek, 

And the dove mourned on apace ; 
No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek 
Rose up to show me his place. 
O last love I O first love ! 

My love with the true heart, 
To think I have come to this your home, 
And yet — we are apart ! 

My love ! He stood at my right hand, 

His eyes were grave and sweet. 
Methought he said, " In this far land, 

O, is it thus we meet ! 
Ah, maid most dear, I am not here ; 

I have no place, — no part, — 
No dwelling more by sea or shore, 
But only in thy heart." 

O fair dove ! O fond dove ! 

Till night rose over the bourne. 
The dove on the mast, as we sailed fast, 
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 203 



REMONSTRANCE. 

DAUGHTERS of Eve ! your mother did not well 
She laid the apple in your father's hand, 
And we have read, O wonder ! what befell, — ■ 

The man was not deceived, nor yet could stand : 
He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne, — 
With her could die, but could not live alone. 

Daughters of Eve ! he did not fall so low, 
Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell ; 

For something better, than as gods to know, 
That husband in that home left off to dwell : 

For this, till love be reckoned less than lore, 

Shall man be first and best for evermore. 

Daughters of Eve ! it was for your dear sake 
The world's first hero died an uncrowned king; 

But God's great pity touched the grand mistake, 
And made his married love a sacred thing : 

For yet his nobler sons, if aught be true. 

Find the lost Eden in their love to you. 



204 CONTRASTED SONGS. 



SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF CHRIST'S 
RESURRECTION. 

(J[ Humble Lnitation.) 

" And birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave." 

IT is the noon of night, 
And the world's Great Light 
Gone out, she widow-like doth carry her : 
The moon hath veiled her face, 
Nor looks on that dread place 
Where He lieth dead in sealed sepulchre ; 
And heaven and hade^J, emptied, lend 
Their flocking multitudes to watch and wait the end. 

Tier above tier they rise, 

Their wings new line the skies, 
And shed out comforting light among the stars ; 

But they of the other place 

The heavenly signs deface, 
The gloomy brand of hell their brightness mai-s ; 

Yet high they sit in throned state, — 
It is the hour of darkness to them dedicate. 

And first and highest set. 
Where the black shades are met, 
The lord of night and hades leans him down ; 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 205 

His gleaming eyeballs show 
More awful than the glow, 
Which hangeth by the points of his dread crown ; 
And at his feet, whfere lightnings play. 
The fatal sisters sit and weep, and curse their day. 

Lo ! one, with eyes all wide, 

As she were sight denied, 
Sits blindly feeling at her distaff old ; 

One, as distraught with woe. 

Letting the spindle go. 
Her star y-sprinkled gown doth shivering fold ; 

And one right mournful hangs her head, 
Complaining, " Woe is me ! I may not cut the thread. 

" All men of every birth, 

Yea, great ones of the earth. 
Kings and their councillors, have I drawn down ; 

But I am held of Thee, — 

Why dost Thou trouble me. 
To bring me up, dead King, that keep'st Thy crown ? 

Yet for all courtiers hast but ten 
Lowly, unlettered, Galilean fishermen. 

" Olympian heights are bare 
Of whom men worshipped there. 
Immortal feet their snows may print no more ; 
Their stately powers below 
Lie desolate, nor know 



2o6 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

This thirty years Thessalian grove or shore ; 
But I am elder far than they ; — 
Where is tlie sentence writ that I must pass away ? 

" Art thou come up for this, 

Dark regent, awful Dis ? 
And hast thou moved the deep to mark our ending ? 

And stirred the dens beneath, 

To see us eat of death, 
With all the scoffing heavens toward us bending? 

Help ! powers of ill, see not us die ! " 
But neither demon dares, nor angel deigns, reply. 

Her sisters, fallen on sleep, 

Fade in the upper deep. 
And their grim lord sits on, in doleful trance ; 

Till her black veil she rends, 

And with her death-shriek bends 
Downward the terrors of her countenance ; 

Then, whelmed in night and no more seen, 
They leave the world a doubt if ever such have been. 

And the winged armies twain 

Their awful watch maintain ; 
They mark the earth at rest with her Great Dead. 

Behold, from Antres wide. 

Green Atlas heave his side ; 
His moving woods their scarlet clusters shed. 

The swathing coif his front that cools. 
And tawny lions lapping at his palm-edged pool*. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 207 

Then like a heap of snow, 

Lying vfhere grasses grow, 
See glimmering, while the moony lustres creep, 

Mild mannered Athens, dight 

In dewy marbles white. 
Among her goddesses and gods asleep ; 

And swaying on a purple sea. 
The many moored galleys clustering at her quay. 

Also, 'neath palm-trees' shade. 
Amid their camels laid, 
The pastoral tribes with all their flocks at rest ; 
Like to those old-world folk, 
With whom two angels broke 
The bread of men at A b ram's courteous 'quest, 
When, listening as they prophesied, 
His desert princess, being reproved, her laugh denied. 

Or from the Morians' land 

See worshipped Nilus bland. 
Taking the silver road he gave the world. 

To wet his ancient shrine 

With waters held divine, 
And touch his temple steps with wavelets curled. 

And list, ere darkness change to gray, 
Old minstrel-throated Memnon chanting in the day. 

Moreover, Indian glades. 

Where kneel the sun-swart maids, 



2o8 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

On Gunga's flood their votive flowers to throw, 
And launch i' the sultry night 
Their burning cressets bright, 

Most like a fleet of stars that southing go, 

Till on her bosom prosperously 

She floats them shining forth to sail the lulled sea. 

Nor bend they not their eyn 

Where the watch-fires shine, 
By shepherds fed, on hills of Bethlehem : 

They mark, in goodly wise, 

The city of David rise, 
The gates and towers of rare Jerusalem ; 

And hear the 'scaped Kedron fret, 
And night dews dropping from the leaves of Olivet. 

But now' the setting moon 

To curtained lands must soon, 
In her obedient fashion, minister ; 

She first, as loath to go, 

Lets her last silver flow 
Upon her Master's sealed sepulchre ; 

And trees that in the gardens spread, 
She kisseth all for sake of His low-lying head. 

Then 'neath the rim goes down ; 
And night with darker frown 
Sinks on the fateful garden watched long ; 
Whf-n some de.-^pairing eyes. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 209 

Far in the murky skies, 
The unwished waking by their gloom foretell ; 
And blackness up the welkin swings, 
And drinks the mild effulgence from celestial wings. 

Last, with amazed cry, 
The hosts asunder fly, 
Leaving an empty gulf of blackest hue ; 
Whence straightway shooteth down, 
By the Great Father thrown, 
A mighty angel, strong and dread to view ; 
And at his fall the rocks are rent. 
The waiting world doth quake with mortal tremblement ; 

The regions far and near 
Quail with a pause of fear. 
More terrible than aught since time began ; 
The winds, that dare not fleet. 
Drop at his awful feet. 
And in its bed wails the wide ocedn ; 

The flower of dawn forbears to blow, 
And the oldest running river cannot skill to flow. 

At stand, by that dread place. 

He lifts his radiant face. 
And looks to heaven with reverent love and fear ; 

Then, while the welkin quakes. 

The muttering thunder breaks, 
And lightnings shoot and ominous meteors drear. 



ilC CONTRASTED SONGS. 

And all the daunted earth doth moan, 
He from the doors of death rolls back the sealed stone. — 

— In regal quiet deep, 

Lo, One new waked from sleep ! 
Behold, He standeth in the rock-hewn door ! 

Thy children shall not die, — 

Peace, peace, thy Lord is by ! 
He liveth ! — they shall live for evermore. 

Peace ! lo. He lifts a priestly hand, 
And blesseth all the sons of men in every land. 

Then, with great dread and wail, 

Fall down, like storms of hail. 
The legions of the lost in fearful wise ; 

And they whose blissful race 

Peoples the better place, 
Lift up their wings to cover their fair eyes. 

And through the waxing saffron brede. 
Till they are lost in light, recede, and yet recede. 

So while the fields are dim, 

And the red sun his rim 
First heaves, in token of his reign benign, 

All stars the most admired, 

Into their blue retired, 
Lie hid, — the faded moon forgets to shine, — 

And, hurrying down the sphery way, 
Night flies, and sweeps her shadows from the paths of day. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 2H 

But look ! the Saviour blest, 

Calm after solemn rest, 
Stands in the garden 'neath His olive boughs ; 

The earliest smile of day 

Doth on His vesture play, 
And light the majesty of His still brov^s ; 

While angels hang with wings outspread, 
Holding the new-won crown above His saintly head. 



SONG OF MARGARET. 

AY, I saw her, we have met, — 
Married eyes how sweet they be, 
Are you happier, Margaret, 

Than you might have been with me ? 
Silence ! make no more ado ! 

Did she think I should forget ? 
Matters nothing, though I knew, 
Margaret, Margaret. 

Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy, 
Told a certain thing to mine ; 

What they told me I put by, 
O, so careless of the sign. 

Such an easy thing to take. 
And I did not want it then ; 



212 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Fool ! I wish my heart would break, 
Scorn is bard on hearts of men. 

Scorn of self is bitter work, — 

Each of us has felt it now : 
Bluest skies she counted mirk, 

Self-betrayed of eyes and brow ; 
As for me, I went my way. 

And a better man drew nigh, 
Fain to earn, with long essay. 

What the winner's hand threw by. 

Matters not in deserts old. 

What was born, and waxed, and yearned, 
Year to year its meaning told, 

I am come, — its deeps are learned, — 
Come, but there is naught to say, — 

Married eyes with mine have met. 
Silence ! O, I had my day, 

Margaret, Margaret. 



SONG OF THE GOING AWAY. 

« /'"X LD ma!i, upon the green hillside, 
V^ With yellow flowers besprinkled o'er, 

How long in silence wilt thou bide 
At this low stone door ? 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 213 



" I stoop : within 't is dark and still ; 

But shadowy paths methinks there be, 
And lead they far into the hill ? " 

" Traveller, come and see." 

" *T is dark, 't is cold, and hung with gloom ; 

I care not now within to stay ; 
For thee and me is scarcely room, 

I will hence away." 

" Not so, not so, thou youthful guest, 
Thy foot shall issue forth no more : 

Behold the chamber of thy rest, 
And the closing door ! " 

" O, have I 'scaped the whistling ball. 
And striven on smoky fields of fight, 

And scaled the 'leaguered city's wall 
In the dangerous night; 

" And borne my life unharmed still 
Through foaming gulfs of yeasty spray, 

To yield it on a grassy hill 
At the noon of day ? " 

" Peace ! Say thy prayers, and go to sleep. 
Till some time, One my seal shall break. 

And deep shall answer unto deep. 
When He crieth, ^ Awake ! ' " 



214 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

A LILY AND A LUTE. 
(Song of the uncommunicated Ideal.) 



I OPENED the eyes of my soul. 
And behold, 
A white river-lily : a lily awake, and aware, — 
For she set her face upward, — aware how in scarlet and 

gold 
A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering air, 
Lay over with fold upon fold, 
With fold upon fold. 

And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made her 

also ashamed. 
The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was fair ; 
And over the far-away mountains that no man hath named, 

And that no foot hath trod, 
Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it were, 
A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make them 

endure, 
Withdrawn in snow silence forever, who keep themselves 

pure. 

And look up to God. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 215 

Then I said, " In rosy air, 
Cradled on thy reaches fair, 
While the blushing early ray 
Whitens into perfect day, 
River-lily, sweetest known, 
Art thou set for me alone ? 
Nay, but I will bear thee far. 
Where yon clustering steeples are, 
And the bells ring out o'erhead. 
And the stated prayers are said ; 
And the busy farmers pace. 
Trading in the market-place ; 
And the country lasses sit, 
By their butter, praising it ; 
And the latest news is told. 
While the fruit and cream are sold ; 
And the friendly gossips greet. 
Up and down the sunny street. 
For," I said, " I have not met, 
White one, any folk as yet 
Who would send no blessing up, 
Looking on a face like thine ; 
For thou art as Joseph's cup, 
And by thee might they divine. 

" Nay ! but thou a spirit art ; 
Men shall take thee in the mart 
For the ghost of their best thought, 
Raised at noon, and near them brought; 



2 16 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Or the prayer they made last night, 
Set before them all in white." 

And I put out ray rash hand, 
For I thought to draw to land 
The white lily. Was it fit 
Such a blossom should expand, 
Fair enough for a world's wonder. 
And no mortal gather it ? 
No. I strove, and it went under, 
And I drew, but it went down ; 
And the waterweeds' long tresses, 
And the overlapping cresses, 
Sullied its admired crown. 
Then along the river strand. 
Trailing, wrecked, it came to land, 
Of its beauty half despoiled. 
And its snowy pureness soiled : 
O ! I took it in ray hand, — 
You will never see it now. 
White and golden as it grew : 
No, I cannot show it you, 
Nor the cheerful town endow 
With the freshness of its brow. 

If a royal painter, great 
With the colors dedicate 
To a dove's neck, a sea-bight. 
And the flickerings over white 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 217 

Mountain summits far away, — 
One content to give his mind 
To the enrichment of mankind, 
And the laying up of light 
In men's houses, — on that day, 
Could have passed in kingly mood, 
Would he ever have endued 
Canvas with the peerless thing, 
In the grace that it did bring. 
And the light that o'er it flowed, 
With the pureness that it showed. 
And the pureness that it meant ? 
Could he skill to make it seen 
As he saw ? For this, I ween. 
He were likewise impotent. 

II. 

I opened the doors of my heart. 

And behold. 
There was music within and a song, 
And echoes did feed on the sweetness, repeating it long. 
I opened the doors of my heart : and behold, 
There was music that played itself out in Aeolian notes ; 
Then was heard, as a far-away bell at long intervals tolled, 

That murmurs and floats, 
And presently dieth, forgotten of forest and wold, 
And comes in all passion again, and a tremblement soft. 

That maketh the hstener full oft 
10 



2i8 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

To whisper, " Ah ! would I might hear it for ever and aye, 
When I toil in the heat of the day, 
When I walk in the cold." 

I opened the door of my heart. And behold, 
There was music within, and a song. 

But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, thick 
and strong, 

Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting was 
drowned, 
I could hear it no more ; 

For the welkin was moaning, the waters were stirred on 
the shore. 
And trees in the dark all around 

Were shaken. It thundered. " Hark, hark ! there is 
thunder to-night ! 

The sullen long wave rears her head, and comes down 
with a will ; 

The awful white tongues are let loose, and the stars are 
all dead ; — 

There is thunder ! it thunders ! and ladders of light 
Run up. There is thunder ! " I said, 

" Loud thunder ! it thunders ! and up in the dark over- 
head, 

A down-pouring cloud, (there is thunder !) a down-pour- 
ing cloud 

Hails out her fierce message, and quivers the deep in 
its bed, 

And cowers the earth held at bay ; and they mutter aloud. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



219 



And pause with an ominous tremble, till, great in their 

rage, 
The heavens and earth come together, and meet with a 

crash ; 
And the fight is so fell as if Time had come down with 
the flash. 
And the story of life was all read, 
And the Giver had turned the last page. 

" Now their bar the pent water-floods lash. 
And the forest trees give out their language austere with 
great age ; 
And there flieth o'er moor and o'er hill. 
And there heaveth at intervals wide. 
The long sob of nature's great passion as loath to subside, 
Until quiet drop down on the tide, 
And mad Echo had moaned herself still." 



Lo ! or ever I was 'ware, 

In the silence of the air, 

Through my heart's wide-open door. 

Music floated forth once more. 

Floated to the world's dark rim. 

And looked over with a hymn ; 

Then came home with flutings fine, 

And discoursed in tones divine 

Of a certain f^rief of mine ; 

And went downward and went in. 



220 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Glimpses of my soul to win, 
And discovered such a deep 
That I could not choose but weep, 
For it lay, a land-locked sea, 
Fathomless and dim to me. 

O, the song ! it came and went, 
Went and came. 

I have not learned 
Half the lore whereto it yearned, 
Half the magic that it meant. 
Water booming in a cave ; 
Or the swell of some long wave, 
Setting in from unrevealed 
Countries ; or a foreign tongue. 
Sweetly talked and deftly sung, 
While the meaning is half sealed ; 
May be like it. You have heard 
Also ; — can you find a word 
For the naming of such song? 
No ; a name would do it wrong. 
You have heard it in the night. 
In the dropping rain's despite. 
In the midniojht darkness deep. 
When the children were asleep, 
And the wife, — no, let that be ; 
She asleep ! She knows right well 
What the song to you and me, 
While we breathe, can never tell ; 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 22 1 

She hath heard its faultless flow, 
Where the roots of music grow. 



While I listened, like young birds, 
Hints were fluttering ; almost words, — 
Leaned and leaned, and nearer came ; — 
Everything had changed its name. 



Sorrow was a ship, I found. 

Wrecked with them that in her are, 

On an island richer far 

Than the port where they were bound. 

Fear was but the awful boom 

Of the old great bell of doom, 

Tolling, far from earthly air. 

For all worlds to go to prayer. 

Pain, that to us mortal chngs. 

But the pushing of our wings, 

That we have no use for yet, 

And the uprooting of our feet 

From the soil where they are set. 

And the land we reckon sweet. 

Love in growth, the grand deceit 

Whereby men the perfect greet ; 

Love in wane, the blessing sent 

To be (howsoe'er it went) 

Never more with earth contento 



222 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

O, full sweet, and O, full high, 

Ran that music up the sky ; 

But I cannot sing it you, 

More than I can make you view. 

With my paintings labial, 

Sitting up in awful row, 

White old men majestical, 

Mountains, in their gowns of snow. 

Ghosts of kings ; as my two eyes, 

Looking over speckled skies. 

See them now. About their knees, 

Half in haze, there stands at ease 

A great army of green hills. 

Some bareheaded ; and, behold, 

Small green mosses creep on some. 

Those be mighty forests old ; 

And white avalanches come 

Through yon rents, where now distils 

Sheeny silver, pouring down 

To a tune of old renown. 

Cutting narrow pathways through 

Gentian belts of airy blue, 

To a zone where starwort blows, 

And long reaches of the rose. 



So, that haze all left behind, 
Down the chestnut forests wind. 
Past yon jagged spires, where yet 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Foot of man was never set ; 
Past a castle yawning wide, 
With a great breach in its side, 
To a nest-like valley, where, 
Like a sparrow's egg in hue, 
Lie two lakes, and teach the true 
Color of the sea-maid's hair. 



What beside ? The world beside ! 
Drawing down and down, to greet 
Cottage clusters at our feet, — 
Every scent of summer tide, — 
Flowery pastures all aglow 
(Men and women mowing go 
Up and down them) ; also soft 
Floating of the film aloft, 
Fluttering of the leaves alow. 
Is this told ? It is not told. 
Where 's the danger ? where 's the cold 
Shppery danger up the steep ? 
Where yon shadow fallen asleep ? 
Chirping bird and tumbling spray, 
Light, work, laughter, scent of hay, 
Peace, and echo, where are they ? 



Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold ; 
Memory must their grace enfold 



223 



224 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Silently ; and that high song 
Of the heart, it doth belong 
To the hearers. Not a whit, 
Though a chief musician heard, 
Could he make a tune for it. 



Though a lute full deftly strung, 
And the sweetest bird e'er sung, 
Could have tried it, — O, the lute 
For that wondrous song were mute, 
And the bird would do her part, 
Falter, fail, and break her heart, — 
Break her heart, and furl her wings. 
On the unexpressive strings. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

( On the Advantages of the Poetical Temperament.) 

AN IMPERFECT FABLE WITH A DOUBTFUL MORAL. 

HAPPY Gladys ! I rejoice with her, 
1 1 For Gladys saw the island. 

It was thus : 




Tliey gave a day for pleasure in the school 
AYhere Gladys taught ; and all the other girls 
Were taken out, to picnic in a wood. 
But it was said, " We think it were not well 
That little Gladys should acquire a taste 
For pleasure, going about, and needless change. 
It would not suit her station : discontent 
Might come of it ; and all her duties now 
She does so pleasantly, that we were best 
To keep her humble." So they said to her, 
" Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day. 
Look, you are free ; you need not sit at work : 
No, you may take a long and pleasant walk 
Over the se?.-clifF, or upon the beach 
Among the visitors." 

Then Gladys blushed 
10* 



226 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

For joy, and thanked them. What ! a holiday, 
A whole one, for herself ! How good, how kind ! 
With that, the marshalled carriages drove off; 
And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy, 
Stole out beyond the groups upon tlie beach — 
The children with their wooden spades, the band 
That played for lovers, and the sunny stir 
Of cheerful life and leisure — to the rocks, 
For these she wanted most, and there was time 
To mark them ; how like ruined organs prone 
They lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes. 
And let the great white-crested reckless wave 
Beat out their booming melody. 

The sea 
Was filled with light ; in clear blue caverns curled 
The breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp, 
As playing at some rough and dangerous game, 
While all the nearer waves rushed in to help. 
And all the farther heaved their heads to peep, 
And tossed the fishing boats. Then Gladys laughed, 
And said, " O, happy tide, to be so lost 
In sunshine, that one dare not look at it ; 
And lucky cliffs, to be so brown and warm ; 
And yet how lucky are the shadows, too. 
That lurk beneath their ledges. It is strange, 
That in remembrance though I lay them up. 
They are forever, when I come to them. 
Better than I had thought. O, something yet 
I had forgotten. Oft I say, * At least 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 22/ 

This picture is imprinted; thus and thus, 
The sharpened serried jags run up, run out, 
Layer on layer.' And I look — up — up — 
High, higher up again, till far aloft 
They cut into their ether, — brown, and clear, 
And perfect. And I, saying, ' This is mine, 
To keep,' retire ; but shortly come again, 
And they confound me with a glorious change. 
The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them ; 
They redden, and their edges drip with — what ? 
I know not, but 't is red. It leaves no stain, 
For the next morning they stand up like ghosts 
In a sea-^hroud and fifty thousand mews 
Sit there, ill long white files, and chatter on, 
Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood. 

*' There is the boulder where we always turn. 

O ! I have longed to pass it ; now I will. 

Wliat would THEY say ? for one must slip and spring ; 

' Young ladies ! Gladys ! I am shocked. My dears, 

Decorum, if you please : turn back at once. 

Gladys, we blame you most ; you should have looked 

Before you.' Then they sigh, — how kind they are ! — 

• What will become of you, if all your life 

You look a long way off? — look anywhere, 

And everywhere, instead of at your feet, 

And wherfc they carry you ! ' Ah, well, I know 

It is a pity," Gladys said ; " but then 

We cannot all be wise : happy for me, 



228 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

That other people are. 

"And yet I wish, — 
For sometimes very right and serious thoughts 
Come to me, — I do wish that they would come 
When they are wanted ! — when I teach the sums 
On rainy days, and when the practising 
I count to, and the din goes on and on, 
Still the same tune and still the same mistake, 
Then I am wise enough : sometimes I feel 
Quite old. I think that it will last, and say, 
' Now my reflections do me credit ! now 
I am a woman ! ' and I wish they knew 
How serious all my duties look to me. 
And how, my heart hushed down and shaded lies. 
Just like the sea when low, convenient clouds, 
Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. 
But does it last ? Perhaps, that very day. 
The front door opens : out we walk in pairs ; 
And I am so dehghted with this world. 
That suddenly has grown, being new washed, 
To such a smiling, clean, and thankful world, 
And with a tender face shining through tears, 
Looks up into the sometime lowering sky. 
That has been angry, but is reconciled, 
And just forgiving her, that I, — that I, — 
0, I forget myself: w^hat matters how ! 
And then I hear (but always kindly said) 
Some words that pain me so, — but just, but true : 
* For if your place in this establishment 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 229 

Be but subordinate, and if your birth 
Be lowly, it the more behooves, — well, well, 
No more. We see that you are sorry.' Yes ! 
I am always sorry then ; but now, — 0, now, 
Here is a bight more beautiful than all." 

" And did they scold her, then, my pretty one ? 
And did she want to be as wise as they. 
To bear a bucklered heart and priggish mind ? 
Ay, you may crow ; she did ! but no, no, no, 
The night-time will not let her, all the stars 
Say nay to that, — the old sea laughs at her. 
Why, Gladys is a child ; she has not skill 
To shut herself within her own small cell. 
And build the door up, and to say, ' Poor me ! 
I am a prisoner ' ; then to take hewn stones. 
And, having built the windows up, to say, 
' O, it is dark ! there is no sunshine here ; 
There never has been.' " 

Strange ! how very strange ! 
A woman passing Gladys with a babe. 
To whom she spoke these words, and only looked 
Upon the babe, who crowed and pulled her curls, 
And never looked at Gladys, never once. 
" A simple child," she added, and went by, 
" To want to change her greater for their less ; 
But Gladys sliail not do it, no, not she ; 
We love her — don't we ? — far too well for that." 



230 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



Then Gladys, flushed with shame and keen surprise, 

'' How could she be so near, and I not know ? 

And have I spoken out my thought aloud ? 

I must have done, forgetting. It is well 

She walks so fast, for I am hungry now, 

And here is water cantering down the cliff. 

And here a shell to catch it with, and here 

The round plump buns they gave me, and the fruit. 

Now she is gone behind the rock. O, rare 

To be alone ! " So Gladys sat her down, 

Unpacked her little basket, ate and drank. 

Then pushed her hands into the warm dry sand, 

And thought the earth was happy, and she too 

Was going round with it in happiness. 

That holiday. " What was it that she said ? " 

Quoth Gladys, cogitating; " they were kind, 

The words that woman spoke. She does not know ! 

* Her greater for their less,' — it makes me laugh, — 

But yet," sighed Gladys, " though it must be good 

To look and to admire, one should not wish 

To steal their virtues, and to put them on, 

Like feathers from another wing ; beside, 

That calm, and that grave consciousness of worth, 

When all is said, would little suit with me, 

Wlio am not worthy. When our thougiits are born, 

Tiiough the}' be good and humble, one should mind 

How they are reared, or some will go astray 

And shame their mother. Cain and Abel both 

Were only once removed from innocence. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Why did I envy them ? That was not good ; 
Yet it began with my humility." 

But as she spake, lo, Gladj'S raised her eyes, 

And right before her, on the horizon's edge, 

Behold, an island ! First, she looked away 

Along the solid rocks and steadfast shore, 

For she was all amazed, bt^lieving not, 

And then she looked again, and there again 

Behold, an island ! And the tide had turned. 

The milky sea had got a purple rim, 

And from the rim that mountain island rose. 

Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peak 

The higher, and with fell and precipice. 

It ran down steeply to the water's brink ; 

But all the southern line was long and soft. 

Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought. 

Covered with forest or with sward. But, look ! 

The sun was on the island ; and he showed 

On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. 

Then Gladys held her breath ; she said, " Indeed, 

Indeed it is an island : how is this, 

I never saw it till this fortunate 

IvLire holiday ? " And while she strained her eyes. 

She thought that it becran to fade ; but not 

To change as clouds do, only to withdraw 

And melt \uio its azure ; and at last, 

Little by little, from her hungry heart, 

That longed to draw things marvellous to itself, 



231 



232 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

And yearned towards the riches and the great 

Abundance of the beauty God hath made, 

It passed away. Tears started in her eyes, 

And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone ; 

The careless sea had quite forgotten it, 

And all was even as it had been before. 

And Gladys wept, but there was luxury 

In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed, 

" O, what a little while ! I am afraid 

I shall forget that purple mountain isle, 

The lovely hollows atween her snow-clad peaks, 

The grace of her upheaval where she lay 

Well up against tiie open. O, my heart, 

Now I remember how this holiday 

Will soon be done, and now my life goes on 

Not fed ; and only in the noonday walk 

Let to look silently at what it wants. 

Without the power to wait or pause awhile, 

And understand and draw within itself 

The richness of the earth. A holiday ! 

How few I have ! I spend the silent time 

At work, while all their pupils are gone home, 

And feel myself remote. They shine apart ; 

They are great planets, I a little orb ; 

My little orbit far within their own 

Turns, and approaches not. But yet, the more 

I am alone when those I teach return ; 

For they, as planets of some other sun, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Not mine, have paths that can but meet my ring 

Once in a cycle. 0, how poor I am ! 

I have not got laid up in this blank heart 

Any indulgent kisses given me 

Because I had been good, or, yet more sweet, 

Because my childliood was itself a good 

Attractive thing for kisses, tender praise. 

And comforting. An orphan-school at best 

Is a cold mother in the winter time 

('T was mostly winter when new orphans came), 

An unregarded mother in the spring. 

" Yet once a year (1 did mine wrong) we went 
To gather cowslips. How we thought on it 
Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street. 
To that one tree, the only one we saw 
From April, — if the cowslips were in bloom 
So early ; or if not, from opening May 
Even to September. Tiien there came the feast 
At Epping. If it rained that day, it rained 
For a whole year to us ; we could not think 
Of fields and hawthorn hedges, and the leaves 
Fluttering, but still it rained, and ever rained. 

" Ah, well, but I am here ; but I have seen 
The gay gorse bushes in their flowering time ,• 
I know the scent of bean -fields ; I have heard 
The satisfying murmur of the main." 



233 



234 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

The woman ! She came i-ound the rock again 

With her fah' baby, and she i^at her down 

By Gladys, murmuring, " Who forbade the grass 

To grow by visitations of the dew ? 

AVho said in ancient time to the desert pool, 

' Tliou shalt not wait for angel visitors 

To trouble thy still water ? * Must we bide 

At home ? The lore, beloved, shall fly to us 

On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breathe 

Without ? O, we shall draw to us the air 

That times and mystery feed on. This shall lay 

Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the world, 

And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on, 

Full of sweet language as a lover's mouth, 

Delivering of a tune to make her youth 

More beautiful than wheat when it is green. 

" What else ? — (O, none shall envy her !) The rain 

And the wild weather will be most her own, 

And talk with her o' nights ; and if the winds 

Plave seen aught wondrous, they will tell it her 

In a mouthful of strange moans, — will bring from far, 

Her ears being keen, the lowing and the mad 

Masterful tramping of the bison herds, 

Tearing down headlong with their bloodshot eyes. 

In savage rifts of hair ; the crack and creak 

Of ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cry 

Of the white bears, all in a dim blue world 

Mumbling their meals by twilight ; or tlie rock 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 235 

And majesty of motion, when their heads 
Primeval trees toss in a sunny storm, 
And hail their nuts down on unweeded fields. 
No holidays," quoth she ; " drop, drop, O, drop, 
Thou tired skylark, and go up no more ; 
You lime-trees, cover not your head with bees, 
Nor give out your good smell. She will not look ; 
No, Gladys cannot draw your sweetness in, 
For lack of holidays." So Gladys thought, 
" A most strange woman, and she talks of me." 
With that a girl ran up ; " Mother," she said, 
*' Come out of this brown bight, I pray you now, 
It smells of fairies." Gladys thereon thought, 
" The mother will not speak to me, perhaps 
The daughter may," and asked her courteously, 
" What do the fairies smell of ? " But the girl 
With peevish pout replied, " You know, you know." 
" Not I," said Gladys ; then she answered her, 
" Something like buttercups. But, mother, come, 
And whisper up a porpoise from the foam. 
Because I want to ride." 

Full slowly, then, 
The mother rose, and ever kept her eyes 
Upon her little child. " You freakish maid," 
Said she, " now mark me, if I call you one, 
You shall not scold nor make him take you far." 

" I only want, — you know I only want," 
The girl replied, " to go and play awhile 



236 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



Upon the sand by Lagos." Then she turned 
And muttered low, " Mother, is this the girl 
Who saw the island ? " But the mother frowned. 
" When may she go to it ? " the daughter asked. 
And Gladys, following them, gave all her mind 
To hear the answer. " When she wills to go ; 
For yonder comes to shore the ferry boat." 
Then Gladys turned to look, and even so 
It was ; a ferry boat, and flir away 
Reared in the offing, lo, the purple peaks 
Of her loved island. 

Then she raised her arms, 
And ran toward the boat, crying out, " O rare, 
The island ! fair befall the island ; let 
Me reach the island." And she sprang on board, 
And after her stepped in the freakish maid 
And the fair mother, brooding o'er her child ; 
And this one took the helm, and that let go 
The sail, and off they flew, and furrowed up 
A flaky hill before, and left behind 
A sobbing snake-like tail of creamy foam ; 
And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shot 
Toward the island ; then, when Gladys looked, 
Were leaving it to leeward. And the maid 
Wliistled a wind to come and rock the craft, 
And would be leaning down her head to mew 
At cat-fish, then lift out into her lap 
And dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed, 
She flung to their sleek mothers, till her own 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



^37 



Rebuked her in good English, after cried, 

" Luff, luff, we shall be swamped." " I will not luff," 

Sobbed the fair mischief; "you are cross to me." 

" For shame ! " the mother shrieked ; " luff, luff, my 

dear ; 
Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have the fish 
With the curly tail to ride on." So she did, 
And presently a dolphin bouncing up. 
She sprang upon his slippery back, — " Farewell," 
She laughed, was off, and all the sea grew calm. 

Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'ware 

In the smooth weather that this woman talked 

Like one in sle'ep, and murmured certain thoughts 

Which seemed to be like echoes of her own. 

She nodded, '' Yes, the girl is going now 

To her own island. Gladys poor ? Not she ! 

Who thinks so ? Once I met a man in white. 

Who said to me, ' The thing that might have been 

Is called, and questioned why it hath not been ; 

And can it give good reason, it is set 

Beside the actual, and reckoned in 

To fill the empty gaps of life.' Ah, so 

The possible stands by us ever fresh. 

Fairer than aught which any life hath owned, 

And makes divine amends. Now this was set 

Apart from kin, and not ordained a home ; 

An equal ; — and not suffered to fence in 

A little plot of earthly good, and say, 



238 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



'T is mine ' ; but in bereavement of the part, 
O, yet to taste the whole, — to understand 
The grandeur of the story, not to feel 
Satiate with good possessed, but evermore 
A healthful hunger for the great idea, 
The beauty and the blessedness of life. 

" Lo, now, the shadow ! " quoth she, breaking off, 
" We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn, 
And, O, the mountain with the purple peaks 
Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out, 
And they were in it : and she saw the snow, 
And under that the rocks, and under that 
The pines, and then the pasturage ; and saw 
Numerous dips, and undulations rare, 
Kunning down seaward, all astir with lithe 
Long canes, and lofty feathers ; for the palms 
And spice trees of the south, nay, every growth. 
Meets in that island. 

So that woman ran 
The boat ashore, and Gladys set her foot 
Thereon. Then all at once much laughter rose ; 
Invisible folk set up exultant shouts, 
" It all belongs to Gladys " ; and she ran 
And hid herself among the nearest trees 
And panted, shedding tears. 

So she looked round, 
And saw that she was in a banyan grove, 
Full of wild peacocks, — pecking on the grass, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 239 

A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, 

Or reaching out their jewelled necks, where high 

Thej sat in rows along the boughs. No tree 

Cumbered with creepers let the sunshine through, 

But it was caught in scarlet cups, and poured 

From these on amber tufts of bloom, and dropped 

Lower on azure stars. The air was still, 

As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep, 

And Ghulys was the only thing that moved, 

Excepting, — no, they were not birds, — what then ? 

Glorified rainbows with a living soul ? 

While they passed through a sunbeam they were seen, 

Not otherwhere, but they were present yet 

In shade. They were at work, pomegranate fruit 

That lay about removing, — purple grapes, 

That clustered in the patli, clearing aside. 

Through a small spot of light would pass and go, 

The glorious happy mouth and two fair eyes 

Of somewhat that made rustlings where it went ; 

But when a beam would strike the ground sheer down, 

Behold them ! they had wings, and they would pass 

One after other with the sheeny fans. 

Bearing them slowly, that their hues were seen. 

Tender as russet crimson dropt on snows. 

Or where they turned flashing with gold and dashed 

With purple glooms. And they had feet, but these 

Did barely touch the ground. And they took heed 

Not to disturb the waiting quietness ; 

Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside their dams ; 



240 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Nor the fair leopard, with her sleek paws laid 

Across her little drowsy cubs ; nor swans, 

That, floating, slept upon a glas?y pool ; 

Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the reeds, 

Witli heads beneath their wings. For this, you know. 

Was Eden. She was passing through the trees 

That made a ring about it, and she cauglit 

A glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seen 

Was nothing to them ; but words are not made 

To tell that tale. No wind was let to blow, 

And all the doves were bidden to hold their peace. 

Why ? One was working in a valley near. 

And none might look that way. It was understood 

That lie had nearly ended tliat His work ; 

For two shapes met, and one to other spak(>. 

Accosting hlni with, " Prince, what workcth lie ?" 

Who whispen.'d, '• Lo ! He fashioneth red clay." 

And all at once a little trembling stir 

Was iclt in the earih, and every creature woke, 

And laid its head down, listening. It was known 

Then that the work was done ; the new-made king 

Had risen, and set his feet upon his realm, 

And it acknowledged him. 

But in her path 
Came some one that withstood her, and he said, 
" What doest thou here ? " Then she did turn and flee. 
Among those colored spirits, through the grove, 
Trembling for haste ; it v/as not well with her 
Till she came forth of tliose thick bauA'an-trecs, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 24I 

And set her feet upon the common grass, 
And felt the common wind. 

Yet once beyond, 
She could not choose but cast a backward j^lance. 
The lovely matted growth stood like a wall, 
And means of entering were not evident, — 
The gap had closed. But Gladys laughed for joy : 
She said, " Remoteness and a multitude 
Of years are counted nothing here. Behold, 
To-day I have been in Eden. O, it blooms 
In my own island." 

And she wandered on, 
Thinking, until she reached a place of palms, 
And all the eartli was sandy where slie walked, — 
Sandy and dry, — strewed with papyrus leaves. 
Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lids 
Of mummies (for perhaps is was the way 
That leads to dead old Egypt), and withal 
Excellent sunshine cut out sharp and clear 
The hot {)rone pillars, and the carven plinths, — 
Stone lotus cups, with petals dipped in sand, 
And wicked gods, and st)l)inxes bhmd, who sat 
And s-i)ilc(l upon the ruin. O how still ! 
Ilof, !)lank, illuminated with the clear 
State of an unvs^led sky. The dry stiff leaves 
OF palm-trees never rustled, and the soul 
Of that dead ancientry was itself dead. 
She was above her ankles in the sand, 
When she beheld a rocky r(jad, and, lo I 
11 



242 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

It bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels, 
Wiiich erst had carried to their pagan prayers 
The brown old Pharaohs ; for the ruts led on 
To a great cliff, that either was a cliff 
Or some dread shrine in ruins, — partly reared 
In front of that same cliff, and partly hewn 
Or excavate within its heart. Great heaps 
Of sand and stones on either side there lay ; 
And, as the girl drew on, rose out from each, 
As from a ghostly kennel, gods unblest. 
Dog-headed, and behind them winged things 
Like angels ; and this carven multitude 
Hedged in, to right and left, the rocky road. 
At last, the cliff, — and in the cliff a door 
Yawning : and she looked in, as down the throat 
Of some stupendous giant, and beheld 
No floor, but wide, worn, flights of steps, that led 
Into a dimness. When the eyes could bear 
That change to gloom, she saw flight after flight, 
Flight after flight, the worn long stair go down. 
Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. 
So she did enter ; also she went down 
Till it was dark, and yet again went down, 
Till, gazing upward at that yawning door, 
It seemed no larger, in its height remote, 
Than a pin's head. But while, irresolute, 
She doubted of the end, yet farther down 
A slender ray of lamplight fell away 
Along the stair, as Irom a door ajar : 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

To this again she felt her way, and stepped 
Adown the hollow stair, and reached the light ; 
But fear fell on her, fear ; and she forbore 
Entrance, and listened. Ay ! 't was even so, — 
A sigh ; the breathing as of one who slept 
And was disturbed. So she drew back awhile, 
And trembled ; then her doubting hand she laid 
Against the door, and pushed it ; but the light 
Waned, faded, sank ; and as she came within — 
Hark, hark ! A spirit was it, and asleep ? 
A spirit doth not breathe like clay. There hung 
A cresset from the roof, and thence appeared 
A flickering speck of light, and disappeared ; 
Then dropped along the floor its elfish flakes, 
That fell on some one resting, in the gloom, — 
Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a shape 
That loomed. It was a heifer, ay, and white. 
Breathing and languid through prolonged repose. 



Was it a heifer ? all the marble floor 
Was milk-white also, and the cresset paled, 
And straight their whiteness grew confused and mixed. 

But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out, — 
The whiteness, — and asleep again ! but now 
It was a woman, robed, and with a face 
Lovely and dim. And Gladys while she gazed 
Murmured, " O terrible ! I am afraid 
To breathe among these intermittent lives, 



243 



244 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

That fluctuate in mystic solitude, 

And change and fade. Lo ! where the goddess sits 

Dreaming on her dim throne ; a crescent moon 

She wears upon her forehead. Ah ! her frown 

Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. 

What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast ? 

A baby god with finger on his lips, 

Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway ? 

Thy son. Hush, hush ; he knoweth all the lore 

And sorcery of old Egypt ; but his mouth 

He shuts ; the secret shall be lost with him, 

He will not tell." 

The woman coming down ! 
" Child, what art doing here ? " the woman said ; 
" What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her bairn ? " 
(Ay, ay, we see thee breathing in thy shroud, — 
Thy pretty shroud, all frilled and furbelow ed.) 
The air is dim with dust of spiced bones. 
I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon tier 
Of painted coffers fills it. What if we. 
Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst, — 
Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie. 
Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings, 
And all the gear they took to bed with them I 
Horrible ! Let us hence. 

And Gladys said, 
" O, they are rough to mount, those stairs '* ; but she 
Took her and laughed, and up the mighty flight 
Shot like a meteor with her. " There," said she ; 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 245 

" The light is sweet when one has smelled of graves, 

Down in unholy heathen gloom ; farewell." 

She pointed to a gateway, strong and high, 

Reared of hewn stones ; but, look ! in lieu of gate, 

There was a glittering cobweb drawn across. 

And on the lintel there were writ these words : 

" Ho, every one that cometh, I divide 

What hath been from what might be, and the line 

Hangeth before thee as a spider's web ; 

Yet, wouldst thou enter thou must break the line, 

Or else forbear the hill." 

The maiden said, 
" So, cobweb, I will break thee." And she passed 
Among some oak-trees on the farther side. 
And waded through the bracken round their bolls, 
Until she saw the open, and drew on 
Toward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixed 
With pines and heathery places wild and fresh. 
Here she put up a creature, that ran on 
Before her, crying, " Tint, tint, tint," and turned, 
Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes. 
Jabbering of gramarye, one Michael Scott, 
The wizard that wonned somewhere underground. 
With other talk enough to make one fear 
To walk in lonely places. After passed 
A man-at-arms, William of Deloraine ; 
He shook his head, " An' if I list to tell," 
Quoth he, " 1 know, but how it matters not " ; 
Then crossed himself, and muttered of a clap 



246 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Of thunder, and a shape in Amice gray, 

But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered, " Tint, 

Tint, tint." " There shall be wild work some day soon," 

Quoth he, " thou limb of darkness : he will come. 

Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp, 

And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie." 

Then Gladys was so frightened, that she ran, 

And got away, towards a grassy down. 

Where sheep and lambs were feeding, with a boy 

To tend them. 'T was the boy who wears that herb 

Called heart's-ease in his bosom, and he sang 

So sweetly to his flock, that she stole on 

Nearer to listen. " Content, Content, 

Give me," sang he, " thy tender company. 

I feed my flock among the myrtles ; all 

My lambs are twins, and they have laid them down 

Along the slopes of Beulah. Come, fair love, 

From the other side the river, where their harps 

Thou hast been helping them to tune. O come, 

And pitch thy tent by mine ; let me behold 

Thy mouth, — that even in slumber talks of peace, — 

Thy well-set locks, and dove-like countenance." 

And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass, 
Till she had rested ; then did ask the boy. 
For it was afternoon, and she was fain 
To reach the shore, " Which is the path, I pray, 
That leads one to the water ? " But he said, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

" Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, 
The path that leads one to the golden gate 
Across the river." So she wandered on ; 
And presently her feet grew cool, the grass 
Standing so high, and thyme bein^ thick and Boft. 
The air was full of voices, and the scent 
Of mountain blossom loaded all its wafts ; 
For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount, 
And reared in such a sort that it looked down 
Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, 
And richest plains o' the island. It was set 
Midway between the snows raajestical 
And a wide level, such as men would choose 
For growing wheat ; and some one said to her, 
" It is the hill Parnassus." So she walked 
Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear 
The calling of an unseen multitude 
To some upon the mountain, " Give us more " ; 
And others said, '* We are tired of this old world : 
Make it look new again." Then there were some 
"Who answered lovingly — (the dead yet speak 
From that high mountain, as the living do) ; 
But others sang desponding, " We have kept 
The vision for a chosen few : we love 
Fit audience better than a rough huzza 
From the unreasoning crowd." 

Then words came up : 
" There was a time, you poets, was a time 
When all the poetry was ours, and made 



247 



248 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

By some who climbed the mountain from our midst. 
We loved it then, we sang it in our streets. 
O, it grows obsolete ! Be you as they : 
Our heroes die and drop away from us ; 
Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing, 
Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. 
Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, 
That many of us think scorn of honest trade, 
And take no pride in our own shops ; who care 
Only to quit a calling, will not make 
The calling what it might be ; who despise 
Their woik, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work 
Dull, and degrade them." 

Then did Gladys smile : 
" Heroes ! " quoth she ; " yet, now I think on it. 
There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh, 
Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks 
I see him burnishing of golden gear, 
Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low, 
' London is thirsty ' — (then he weighs a chain) : 
' 'T is an ill thing, my mastei'S. I would give 
The worth of this, and many such as this, 
To bring it water.' 

" Ay, and after him 
There came up Guy of London, lettered son 
O' the honest lighterman. I '11 think on him, 
Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves, 
After his shop was closed : a still, grave man, 
With melancholy eyes. ' While these are hale,* 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 249 

He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowd 

Cheerily working ; where the river marge 

Is blocked with ships and boats ; and all the wharves 

Swarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise, — 

' While these are hale, 't is well, 't is very well. 

But, O good Lord,' saith he, ' when these are sick, — 

I fear me. Lord, this excellent workmanship 

Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance then. 

Ay, ay, my hearties ! many a man of you, 

Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away, 

And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid, 

Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.* 

Well, we have heard the rest. 

" Ah, next I think 
Upon the merchant captain, stout of heart 
To dare and to endure. ' Robert,' saith he, 
(The navigator Knox to his manful son,) 
' I sit a captive from the ship detained ; 
This heathenry doth let thee visit her. 
Remember, son, if thou, alas ! shouldst fail 
To ransom thy poor father, they are free 
As yet, the mariners ; have wives at home, 
As I have ; ay, and liberty is sweet 
To all men. For the ship, she is not ours. 
Therefore, 'beseech thee, son, lay on the mate 
This my command, to leave me, and set sail. 
As for thyself — ' ' Good father,' saith the son ; 
* I will not, father, ask your blessing now, 
Because, for fair, or else for evil, fate 
11* 



250 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



We two shall meet again.* And so they did. 

The dusky men, peeling off cinnamon, 

And beating nutmeg clusters from the tree, 

Ransom and bribe contemned. The good ship sailed, — 

The son returned to share his father's cell. 

" O, there are many such. Would I had wit 

Their worth to sing ! " With that, she turned her feet. 

" I am tired now," said Gladys, " of their talk 

Around this hill Parnassus." And, behold, 

A piteous sight — an old, blind, graybeard king 

Led by a fool with bells. Now this was loved 

Of the crowd below the hill ; and when he called 

For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age, 

And plained on his unkind daughters, they were known 

To say, that if the best of gold and gear 

Could have bought him back his kingdom, and made 

kind 
The hard hearts which had broken his erewhile, 
They would have gladly paid it from their store 
Many times over. What is done is done, 
No help. The ruined majesty passed on. 
And look you ! one who met her as she walked 
Showed her a mountain nymph lovely as light. 
Her name CEnone ; and she mourned and mourned, 
" O Mother Ida," and she could not cease, 
No, nor be comforted. 

And after this, 
Soon there came by, arrayed in Norman cap 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 251 

And kirtle, an Arcadian villager, 
Wlio said, " 1 pray you, have you chanced to meet 
One Gabriel ? " and she sighed ; but Gladys took 
And kissed her hand : she could not answer her, 
Because she guessed the end. 

With that it drew 
To evening ; and as Gladys wandered on 
In the calm weather, she beheld the wave, 
And she ran down to set her feet again 
On the sea margin, which was covered thick 
With white shell-skeletons. The sky was red 
As wine. The water played among bare ribs 
Of many wrecks, that lay half burled there 
In the sand. She saw a cave, and moved thereto 
To ask her way, and one so innocent 
Came out to meet her, that, with marvelling mute, 
She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue eyes. 
For in them beamed the untaught ecstasy 
Of childhood, that lives on though youth be come, 
And love just born. 

She could not choose but name her shipwrecked prince, 

All blushing. She told Gladys many things 

That are not in the story, — things, in sooth. 

That Prospero her father knew. But now 

'T was evening, and the sun drooped ; purple stripes 

In the sea were copied from some clouds that lay 

Out in the west. And lo ! the boat, and more, 

The freakish thing to take fair Gladys home 



252 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



She mowed at her, but Gladys took the helm : 

Peace, peace ! " she said ; " be good : you shall not steer, 

For I arn your liege lady." Then she sang 

The sweetest songs she knew all the way home. 

So Gladys set her feet upon the sand ; 
While in the sunset glory died away 
The peaks of that blest island. 

" Fare you well. 
My country, ray own kingdom," then she said, 
" Till I go visit you again, farewell." 

She looked toward their house with whom she dwelt, — 

The carriages were coming. Hastening up, 

She was in time to meet them at the door, 

And lead the sleepy little ones within ; 

And some were cross and shivered, and her dames 

Were weary and right hard to please ; but she 

Felt like a beggar suddenly endowed 

With a warm cloak to 'fend her from the cold. 

" For, come what will," she said, " I had to-day. 

There is an island." 

The Moral 

What is the moral ? Let us think awhile, 
Taking the editorial We to help. 
It sounds respectable. 

The moral ; yes. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

We always read, when any fable ends, 
" Hence we may learn." A moral must be found. 
What do you think of this ? " Hence we may learn 
That dolphins swim about the coast of Wales, 
And Admiralty maps should now be drawn ' 
r>y teacher-girls, because their sight is keen, 
And they can spy out islands." Will that do ? 
No, that is far too plain, — too evident. 

Perhaps a general moralizing vein — 
(We know we have a happy knack that way. 
We have observed, moreover, that young men 
Are fond of good advice, and so are girls ; 
Especially of that meandering kind. 
Which winding on so sweetly, treats of all 
They ought to be and do and think and wear, 
As one may say, from creeds to comforters. 
Indeed, we much prefer that sort ourselves, 
So soothing). Good, a moralizing vein ; 
That is the thing ; but how to manage it ? 
" Hence ive may learn," if we be so inclined, 
That life goes best with those wdio take it best ; 
That wit can spin from work a golden robe 
To queen it in ; that who can paint at will 
A private picture gallery, should not cry 
For shillings that will let him in to look 
At some by others painted. Furthermore, 
Hence we may learn, you poets, — {and we count 
For poets all who ever fell that such 



253 



254 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



They were^ and all who secretly have known 

That such they could he ; ay, moreover^ all 

Who wind tlie robes of ideality 

About the bareness of their lives, and hang 

Comforting curtains, knit of fancy'' s yarn. 

Nightly betwixt them and the frosty world), — 

H<nice we may learn, you poets, that of all 

We should be most content. The earth is given 

To us : we reign by virtue of a sense 

Which lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse, 

The ring of that old tune whereto she spins. 

Humanity is given to us: we reign 

By virtue of a sense, which lets us in 

To know its troubles ere they have been told, 

And take them home and lull them into rest 

With mournfullest music. Time is given to us,— 

Time past, time future. Who, good sooth, beside 

Have seen it well, have walked this empty world 

When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills 

Have marked the spurting of their flamy crowns ? 

Have we not seen the tabernacle pitched. 
And peered between the linen curtains, blue, 
Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness there, 
And, frighted, have not dared to look again ? 
But, quaint antiquity ! beheld, we thought, 
A chest that might have held the manna pot 
And Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we leaned 
Over the edge of Britain, while the fleet 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Of Daesar loomed and neared ; then, afterwards, 
We saw fair Venice looking at herself 
In the glass below her, while her Doge went forth 
In all his bravery to the wedding. 

This, 
However, counts for nothing to the grace 
We wot of in time future : — therefore add. 
And afterwards have done : " Hence we may learn" 
That though it be a grand and comely thing 
To be unhappy, — (and we think it is, 
Because so many grand and clever folk 
Have found out reasons for nnhappiness. 
And talked about uncomfortable things, — 
Low motives, bores, and shams, and hollowness, 
The hollowness o' the world, till we at last 
Have scarcely dared to jump or stamp, for fear, 
Being so hollow, it should break some day. 
And let us in), — yet, since we are not grand, 
O, not at all, and as for cleverness. 
That may be or may not be, — it is well 
For us to be as happy as we can ! 

Agreed ; and with a word to the nobler sex. 
As thus ; we pray you carry not your guns 
On the full-cock ; we pray you set your pride 
In its proper place, and never be ashamed 
Of any honest calling, — let us add. 
And end ; for all the rest, hold up your heads 
And mind your English. 



255 



Note to "Gladys and Her Island." 

The woman is Imagination ; she is brooding over what she brought 
forth. 

The two purple peaks represent the domains of Poetry and of His- 
tory. 

The girl is Fancy. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES 




WEDLOCK. 



" Where is my wife, — that has been made my 
wife 

Only this year ? " The casement stood ajar : 
I did but hft my head : The pear-tree dropped, 
The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from leaves 
And blossom, under heavens of happy blue. 

My wife had wakened first, and had gone down 

Into the orchard. All the air was calm ; 

Audible humming filled it. At the roots 

Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps. 

Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like hills 

Were tossing down their silver messengers, 

And two brown foreigners, called cuckoo-birds, 

Gave them good answer ; all things else were mute ; 

An idle world lay listening to their talk, 

They had it to themselves. 



26o SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

What ails my wife ? 
I know not if aught ails her ; though her step 
Tell of a conscious quiet, lest I wake. 
She moves atween the almond boughs, and bends 
One thick with bloom to look on it. " O love ! 
A little while thou hast withdrawn thyself, 
At unaware to think thy thoughts alone : 
How sweet, and yet pathetic to my heart 
The reason. Ah ! thou art no more thine own. 
Mine, mine, O love ! Tears gather 'neath my lids, — 
Sorrowful tears for thy lost liberty, 
Because it was so sweet. Thy liberty. 
That yet, O love, thou wouldst not have again. 
No ; all is right. But who can give, or bless, 
Or take a blessing, but there comes withal 
Some pain ? " 

She walks beside the lily bed, 
And holds apart her gown ; she would not hurt 
The leaf-enfolded buds, that have not looked 
Yet on the daylight. O, thy locks are brown, — 
Fairest of colors ! — and a darker brown 
The beautiful, dear, veiled, modest eyes. 
A bloom as of blush roses covers her 
Forehead, and throat, and cheek. Health breathes with 

her, 
And graceful vigor. Fair and wondrous soul ! 
To think that thou art mine ! 

My wife came in, 
And moved into the chamber. As for me, 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 26 1 

I heard, but lay as one that nothing hears, 
And feigned to be asleep. 



The racing river leaped, and sang 
Full blithely in the perfect weather, 

All round the mountain echoes rang, 
For blue and green were glad together. 

II. 

This rained out light from every part. 

And that with songs of joy was thriUing; 

But, in the hollow of my heart, 

There ached a place that wanted filling. 

III. 

Before the road and river meet, 

And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, 

I heard a sound of laughter sweet, 
And paused to like it, and to listen. 

IV. 

I heard the chanting waters flow, 

The cushat's note, the bee's low humming, - 
Then turned the hedge, and did not know, — 

How could I ? — that my time was coming. 



262 SONGS WITH PRELUDES, 



A girl upon the nighest stone, 

Half doubtful of the deed, was standing, 
So far the shallow flood had flown 

Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. 



VI. 

She knew not any need of me, 
Yet me she waited all urfweeting ; 

We thought not I had crossed the sea, 
And half the sphere to give her meeting. 



VII. 

I waded out, her eyes I met, 

I wished the moment had been hours ; 
I took her in my arms, and set 

Her dainty feet among the flowers. 



VIII. 

Her fellow maids in copse and lane, 

Ah ! still, methinks, I hear them calling ; 

The wind's soft whisper in the plain, 
The cushat's coo, the water's falling. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

IX. 

But now it is a year ago, 

But now possession crowns endeavor ; 
I took her in my heart, to grow 

And fill the hollow place forever. 



263 



REGRET. 



OTHAT word Regret ! 
There have been nights and morns when we have 
sighed, 
" Let us alone. Regret ! We are content 
To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep 
For aye." But it is patient, and it wakes ; 
It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep, 
But plaineth on the bed that it is hard. 

We did amiss when we did wish it gone 
And over : sorrows humanize our race ; 
Tears are the showers that fertilize this world ; 
And memory of things precious keepeth warm 
The heart that once did hold them. 

They are poor 
That have lost nothing ; they are poorer far 
Who, losing, have forgotten ; they mo>t poor 
Of all, who lose and wish they might forget. 



264 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

For life is one, and in its warp and woof 
There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair, 
And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet 
Where there are sombre colors. It is true 
Tliat we have wept. But O ! this thread of gold, 
We would not have it tarnish ; let us turn 
Oft and look back upon the wondrous web. 
And when it shineth sometimes we shall know 
That memory is possession. 



When I remember something which I had, 
But which is gone, and I must do without, 

I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, 
Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout ; 

It makes me sigh to think on it, — but yet 

My days will not be better days, should I forget. 



II. 

When I remember something promised me, 
But which I never had, nor can have now, 

Because the promiser we no more see 

In countries that accord with mortal vow ; 

When I remember this, I mourn, — but yet 

My happier days are not the days when I forget. 



( 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 265 



LAMENTATION. 

I READ upon that book. 
Which down the golden gulf doth let us look 
On the sweet days of pastoral majesty ; 
I read upon that book 
How, when the Shepherd Prince did flee 
(Red Esau's twin), he desolate took 
The stone for a pillow : then he fell on sleep. 
And lo ! there was a ladder. Lo ! there hung 
A ladder from the star-place, and it clung 
To the earth : it tied her so to heaven ; and O ! 

There fluttered wings ; 
Then were ascending and descending things 
That stepped to him where he lay low ; 
Then up the ladder would a-drifting go 
(This feathered brood of heaven), and show 
Small as white flakes in winter that are blown 
Together, underneath the great white throne. 

When I had shut the book, I said, 
" Now, as for me, my dreams upon ray bed 

Are not like Jacob's dream ; 
Yet I have got it in my life ; yes, I, 
And many more : it doth not us beseem, 

Therefore, to sigh. 
Is there not hung a ladder in our sky ? 
12 



266 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

Yea ; and, moreover, all the way up on high 
Is thickly peopled with the prayers of men. 

We have no dream ! What then ? 
Like winged wayfarers the height they scale 
(By Him that offers them they shall prevail), — 
The prayers of men. 
But where is found a prayer for me ; 

How should I pray ? 
My heart is sick, and full of strife. 
I heard one whisper with departing breath, 
' Suffer us not, for any pains of death, 

To fall from Thee.' 
But O, the pains of life ! the pains of life ! 

There is no comfort now, and naught to win. 
But yet, — I will begin." 



" Preserve to me my wealth," I do not say, 
For that is wasted away ; 

And much of it was cankered ere it went. 

'' Preserve to me my health," I cannot say, 
For that, upon a day, 

Went after other delights to banishment. 

II. 

What can I pray ? " Give me forgetfulness " ? 
No, I would i^till pos^^ess 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 267 

Past away smiles, though present fronts be stern. 
'• Give me again ray kindred ? " Nay ; not so, 

Not idle prayers. We know 
They that have crossed the river cannot return. 



III. 

I do not pray, " Comfort me ! comfort me ! " 

For how should comfort be ? 
O, — that cooing mouth, — that little white head ! 
No ; but I pray, " If it be not too late, 

Open to me the gate. 
That I may find my babe when I am dead. 



IV. 

" Show me the path. I had forgotten Thee 

When I was happy and free. 
Walking down here in the gladsome light o' the sun ; 
But now I come and mourn ; O set my feet 

In the road to Thy blest seat, 
And for the rest, O God, Thy will be done." 



268 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



DOMINION. 

WHEN found the rose delight in her fair hue ? 
Color is nothing to this world ; 't is I 
That see it. Farther, I discover soul, 
That trees are nothing to their fellow trees ; 
It is but I that love their stateliness, 
And I that, comforting my heart, do sit 
At noon beneath their shadow. I will step . 
On the ledges of this world, for it is mine ; 
But the other world ye wot of, shall go too ; 
I will carry it in my bosom. my world, 
That was not built with clay ! 

Consider it 
(This outer world we tread on) as a harp, — 
A gracious instrument on whose fair strings 
We learn those airs we shall be set to play 
When mortal hours are ended. Let the wings, 
Man, of thy spirit move on it as wind. 
And draw forth melody. Why shouldst thou yet 
Lie grovelling ? More is won than e'er was lost : 
Inherit. Let thy day be to thy night 
A teller of good tidings. Let thy praise 
Go up as birds go up that, when they wake, 
Shake off the dew and soar. 

So take Joy home, 
And make a place in thy great heart for her, 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 269 

And give her time to grow, and cherish her; 
Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee, 
When thou art working in the furrows ; aj, 
Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn. 
It is a comely fashion to be glad, — 
Joy is the grace we say to God. 

Art tired ? 
There is a rest remaining. Hast thou sinned ? 
There is a Sacrifice. Lift up thy head, 
The lovely world, and the over-world alike, 
Ring with a song eterne, a happy rede, 
" Thy Father loves thee." 

I. 

Yon moored mackerel fleet 

Hangs thick as a swarm of bees, 
Or a clustering village street 

Foundationless built on the seas. 

II. 

The mariners ply their craft, 

Each set in his castle frail ; 
His care is all for the draught, 

And he dries the rain-beaten sail. 

III. 

For rain came down in the night, 
And thunder muttered full oft. 



270 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

But now the azure is bright, 
And hawks are wheeling aloft. 



IV. 

I take the land to my breast, 
In her coat with daisies fine ; 

For me are the hills in their best, 
And all that 's made is mine. 

V. 

Sing high ! " Though the red sun dip, 
There yet is a day for me ; 

Nor youth I count for a ship 
That long ago foundered at sea. 

VI. 

" Did the lost love die and depart ? 

Many times since we have met ; 
For I hold the years in my heart, 

And all that was — is yet. 

VII. 

" I grant to the king his reign ; 

Let us yield him homage due ; 
But over the lands there are twain, 

O king, I must rule as you. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



VIII. 

** I grant to the wise his meed, 
But his yoke I will not brook, 

For God taught me to read, — 
He lent me the world for a book.' 



271 



FRIENDSHIP. 



ON A SUN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, SENT BY HIS 
WIFE TO THEIR FRIEND. 

•T) EAUTIFUL eyes, — and shall I see no more 
-L^ The living thought when it would leap from them, 
And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids ? 

Here was a man familiar with fair heights 

That poets climb. Upon his peace the tears 

And troubles of our race deep inroads made, 

Yet life was sweet to him ; he kept his heart 

At home. Who saw his wife might well have thought, - 

" God loves this man. He chose a wife for him, — 

The true one ! " O sweet eyes, that seem to live, 

I know so much of you, tell me the rest ! 

Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care 

For small, young children. Is a message here 

That you would fain have sent, but had not time ? 



272 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

If such there be, I promise, by long love 
And perfect friendship, by all trust that comes 
Of understanding, that I will not fail, 
No, nor delay to find it. 

0, my heart 
Will often pain me as for some strange fault, — 
Some grave defect in nature, — when I think 
How I, delighted, 'neatli those olive-trees, 
Moved to the music of the tideless main. 
While, with sore weeping, in an island home 
They laid that much-loved head beneath the sod, 
And I did not know. 



I stand on the bridge where last we stood 
When delicate leaves were young ; 

The children called us from yonder wood, 
While a mated blackbird sung. 

II. 

Ah, yet you call, — in your gladness call, • 
And I hear your pattering feet ; 

It does not matter, matter at all, 
You fatherless children sweet, — 

III. 

It does not matter at all to you. 
Young hearts that pleasure besets ; 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

The father sleeps, but the world is new, 
The child of his love forgets. 

IV. 

I too, it may be, before they drop, 
The leaves that flicker to-day. 

Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop, 
Shall pass from my place away : 



Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white, 
Or snow lies soft on the wold, 

Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light, 
And leave the story untold. 



VI. 



Shall I tell it there ? Ah, let that be, 
For the warm pulse beats so high ; 

To love to-day, and to breathe and see, — 
To-morrow perhaps to die, — 

VII. 

Leave it with God. But this I have known. 

That sorrow is over soon ; 
Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone, 

Forget by full of the moon. 

12* 



273 



274 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

VIII. 

But if all loved, as the few can love, 
This world would seldom be well ; 

And who need wish, if he dwells above, 
For a deep, a long death knell. 

IX. 

There are four or five, who, passing this place, 
While they hve will name me yet ; 

And when I am gone will think on my face. 
And feel a kind of regret. 



WINSTANLEY. 



THE APOLOGY. 




TJOTH the cedar to the reeds and rushes, 
" Water-grass, you know not what I do ; 

Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes, 
And — I know not you.'* 



Quoth the reeds and rushes, " Wind ! waken ! 

Breathe, wind, and set our answer free, 
For we have no voice, of you forsaken, 
For the cedar-tree.'* 

Quoth the earth at midnight to the ocean, 

" Wilderness of water, lost to view, 
Naught you are to me hut sounds of motion ; 
lam naught to you.** 

Quoth the ocean, " Dawn ! fairest, clearest. 

Touch me with thy golden fingers bland/ 
For I have no smile till thou appearest 
For the lovely land.** 



276 WINSTANLEY. 

Quoth the hero dying^ whelmed in glory ^ 

" Many blame me, few have understood ; 
Ah, my folk, to you Heave a story, — 
Make its meaning good.^' 

Quoth the folk, " Sing, poet ! teach us, prove us 

Surely we shall learn the meaning then ; 
Wound us with a pain divine, move us, 
For this man of men.'* 



WINSTANLEY'S deed, you kindly folk, 
With it I fill my lay, 
And a nobler man ne'er walked the world, 
Let his name be what it may. 

The good ship " Snowdrop " tarried long. 

Up at the vane looked he ; 
" Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped, 

" She lieth becalmed at sea." 

The lovely ladies flocked within, 

And still would each one say, 
" Good mercer, be the ships come up?" 

But still he answered " Nay." 

Then stepped two mariners down the street, 

With looks of grief and fear : 
" Now, if Winstanley be your name, 

We bring you evil cheer ! 



WINSTANLEY. 277 

"For the good ship ' Snowdrop' struck, — she struck 

On the rock, — the Eddystone, 
And down she went with threescore men, 

We two being left alone. 

" Down in the deep, with freight and crew, 

Past any help she lie?, 
And never a bale has come to shore 

Of all thy merchandise." 

" For cloth o' gold and comely frieze," 

Winstanley said, and sighed, 
" For velvet coif, or costly coat. 

They fathoms deep may bide. 

" O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, 

O mariners, bold and true. 
Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, 

A-thinking of yours and you. 

" Many long days Winstanley's breast 

Shall feel a weight within, 
For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared 

And trading count but sin. 

" To him no more it shall be joy 

To pace the cheerful town. 
And see the lovely ladies gay 

Step on in velvet gown." 

13 



278 WINSTANLEY. 

The " Snowdrop " sank at Lammas tide, 

All under the yeasty spray ; 
On Christmas Eve the brig " Content " 

Was also cast away. 

He little thought o* New Yearns night. 

So jolly as he sat then, 
While drank the toast and praised the roast 

The round-faced Aldermen, — 

While serving lads ran to and fro, 

Pouring the ruby wine. 
And jellies trembled on the board, 

And towering pasties fine, — 

While loud huzzas ran up the roof 
Till the lamps did rock o'erhead. 

And holly-boughs from rafters hung 
Dropped down their berries red, — 

He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, 

With every rising tide, 
How the wave washed in his sailor lad^ 

And laid them side hj side. 

There stepped a stranger to the board : 
" Now, stranger, who be ye ? ** 

He looked to right, he looked to left. 
And " Rest you merry," quoth he ; 



WINSTANLEY. 279 

" For you did not see the brig go down, 

Or ever a storm had blown ; 
For you did not see the white wave rear 

At the rock, — the Eddystone. 

" She drave at the rock with sternsails set ; 

Crash went the masts in twain ; 
She staggered back with her mortal blow. 

Then leaped at it again. 

" There rose a great cry, bitter and strong. 

The misty moon looked out ! 
And the water swarmed with seamen's heads, 

And the wreck was strewed about. 

" I saw her mainsajl lash the sea 

As I clung to the rock alone ; 
Then she heeled over, and down she went. 

And sank like any stone. 

" She was a fair ship, but all *s one ! 

For naught could bide the shock." 
" I will take horse," Winstanley said, 

" And see this deadly rock." 

" For never again shall bark o' mine 

Sail over the windy sea, 
Unless, by the blessing of God, for this 

Be found a remedy." 



28o WINSTANLEY. 

Winstanley rode to Plymouth town 

All in the sleet and the snow, 
And he looked around on shore and sound 

As he stood on Plymouth Hoe. 

Till a pillar of spray rose far away, 

And shot up its stately head. 
Reared and fell over, and reared again : 

" 'T is the rock ! the rock ! " he said. 

Straight to the Mayor he took his way, 
" Good Master Mayor," quoth he, 

" I am a mercer of London town. 
And owner of vessels three, — 

" But for your rock of dark renown, 

I had five to track the main." 
" You are one of many," the old Mayor said, 

" That on the rock comjjlain. 

" An ill rock, mercer ! your words ring right, 
Well with my thoughts they chime, 

For niy two sons to the world to come 
It sent before their time." 

" Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, 
And a score of shipwrights free. 

For I think to raise a lantern tower 
On this rock o' destiny." 



WINSTANLEY. 28 1 

The old Mayor lau^lieJ, but sitrhed als6 ; 

" Ah, youth," quoth he, " is rash ; 
Sooner, young man, tliou 'It root it out 

From tlie sea that dolli it lash. 

" Who sails too near its jagged teeth, 

He shall have evil lot ; 
For tlie calmest seas that tumble there 

Froth like a boiling pot. 

" And the heavier seas few look on nigh, 

But straight they lay him dead ; 
A seventy-gun-ship, sir ! — they '11 shoot 

Higher than her mast-head. 

" O, beacons sighted in the dark, 

They are right welcome things. 
And pitch pots flaming on the shore 

Show fair as angel wings. 

" Hast gold in hand ? then light the land, 

It 'longs to thee and me ; 
But let alone the deadly rock 

In God Almighty's sea." 

Yet said he, " Nay, — I must away, 

On the rock to set my feet ; 
My debts are paid, my will I made, 

Or ever I did thee greet. 



;82 WINSTANLEY. 

" If I must die, then let me die 
By the rock and not elsewhere ; 

If I may live, O let me live 
To mount my lighthouse stair." 

The old Mayor looked him in the face, 
And answered, " Have thy way ; 

Thy heart is stout, as if round about 
It was braced with an iron stay : 

" Have thy will, mercer ! choose thy men, 
Put off from the storm-rid shore ; 

God with thee be, or I shall see 
Thy face and theirs no more." 

Heavily plunged the breaking wave, 

And foam flew up the lea, 
Morning and even the drifted snow 

Fell into the dark gray sea. 

Winstanley chose him men and gear ; 

He said, " My time I waste," 
For the seas ran seething up the shore, 

And the wrack drave on in haste. 

But twenty days he waited and more, 

Pacing the strand alone, 
Or ever he sat his manly foot 

On the rock, — the Eddystone. 



WINSTANLEY. 

Then he and the sea began their strife, 
And worked with power and might : 

Whatever the man reared up by day 
The sea broke down by night. 

He wrought at ebb with bar and beam, 

He sailed to shore at flow ; 
And at his side, by that same tide, 

Came bar and beam als6. 

" Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried, 

" Or thou wilt rue the day." 
" Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed, 

" But the rock will have its way. 

" For all his looks that are so stout. 
And his speeches brave and fair. 

He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, 
But he '11 build no lighthouse there." 

In fine weather and foul weather 

The rock his arts did flout, 
Through the long days and the short days, 

Till all that year ran out. 

With fine weather and foul weather 

Another year came in ; 
" To take his waije," the workmen said, 

" We almost count a sin." 



283 



284 WINSTANLEY. 

Now March was gone, carae April in, 

And a sea-fog settled down, 
And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, 

He sailed from Plymouth town. 

With men and stores he put to sea. 

As he was wont to do ; 
They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint,- 

A ghostly craft and crew. 

And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway, 
For a long eight days and more ; 

*' God help our men," quoth the women then ; 
" For they bide long from shore." 

They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread : 
" Where may our mariners be ? " 

But the brooding fog lay soft as down 
Over the quiet sea. 

A Scottish schooner made the port, 

The thirteenth day at e'en ; 
" As I am a man," the captain cried, 

" A strange sight I have seen : 

" And a strange sound heard, my masters all^ 
At sea, in the fo^ and the rain. 

Like shipwriglits' hammers tapping low, 
Then loud, then low again. 



WINSTANLEY. 285 

" And a stately house one instant showed, 

Through a rift, on the vessel's lee ; 
What manner of creatures may be those 

That build upon the sea ? " 

Then sighed the folk, " The Lord be praised ! " 
And they flocked to the shore amain ; 

All over the Hoe that livelong nio;ht, 
Many stood out in the rain. 



o 



It ceased, and the red sun reared his head, 

And the rollinsj fogj did flee ; 
And, lo ! in the offing faint and far 

Winstanl.ey's house at sea ! 

In fair weather with mirth and cheer 

The stately tower uprose ; 
In foul weather, with hunger and cold, 

They were content to close ; 

Till up the stair Winstanley went. 

To fire the W'ick afar ; 
And Plymouth in the silent night 

Looked out, and saw her star. 

Winstanley set his foot ashore ; 

Said he, " My work is done ; 
I hold it strong to last as long 

As aught beneath the sun. 



286 WINSTANLEY. 

*' But if it fail, as fail it may, 

Borne down with ruin and rout, 
Another than I shall rear it high, 

And brace the girders stout. 

" A better than I shall rear it high, 

For now the way is plain, 
And tho' I were dead," Winstanley said, 

" The light would shine again. 

" Yet, were I fain still to remain. 

Watch in my tower to keep, 
And tend ray light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep ; 

" And if it stood, why then 't were good. 

Amid their tremulous stirs. 
To count each stroke when the mad waves broke, 

For cheers of mariners. 

" But if it fell, then this were well. 

That I should with it fall ; 
Since, for my part, I have built my heart 

In the courses of its wall. 

" Ay ! I were fain, long to remain. 

Watch in my tower to keep. 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep." 



WINSTANLEY. 

With that Winstanley went his way, 

And left, the rock renowned, 
And summer and winter his pilot star 

Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. 

But it fell out, fell out at last. 

That he would put to sea. 
To scan once more his lighthouse tower 

On the rock o' destiny. 

And the winds woke, and the storm broke, 

And wrecks came plunging in ; 
None in the town that night lay down 

Or sleep or rest to win. 

The great mad waves were rolling graves, 

And each flung up its dead ; 
The seething flow was white below. 

And black the sky o'erhead. 

And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn, — 

Broke on the trembling town. 
And men looked south to the harbor mouth, 

The lighthouse tower was down. 

Down in the deep where he doth sleep. 

Who made it shine afar, 
And then in the night that drowned its light, 

Set, with his pilot star. 



2d>7 



288 



WINSTANLEY. 

Many fair tombs in the glorious glooms 

At Westminster they show ; 
The brave and the great lie there in state : 
Winstanley lieth low. 




THE 



MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN, 



AND 



POEMS OF LOVE AND CHILDHOOD. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



'' I ^HERE are who give themselves to work for men,- 

To raise the lost, to gather orphaned babes 
And teach them, pitying of their mean estate, 
To feel for misery, and to look on crime 
With ruth, till they forget that they themselves 
Ai*e of the race, themselves among the crowd 
Under the sentence and outside the gate, 
And of the family and in the doom. 
Cold is the world ; they feel how cold it is, 
And wish that they could warm it. Hard is life 
For some. They would that they could soften it ; 
And, in the doing of their work, they sigh 
As if it was their choice and not their lot ; 
And, in the raising of their prayer to God, 

They crave his kindness for the world he made, 

I 



2 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN, 

Till they, at last, forget that he, not they, 
Is the true lover of man. 



Now, In an ancient town, that had sunk low, -~ 
Trade having drifted from it, while there stayed 
Too many, that it erst had fed, behind, — 
There walked a curate once, at early day. 

It was the summer-time ; but summer air 
Came never, in its sweetness, down that dark 
And crowded alley, — never reached the door 
Whereat he stopped, — the sordid, shattered door. 

He paused, and, looking right and left, beheld 
Dirt and decay, the lowering tenements 
That leaned toward each other ; broken panes 
Bulging with rags, and grim with old neglect ; 
And reeking hills of formless refuse, heaped 
To fade and fester in a stagnant air. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 3 

But ne thought nothing of it : he had learned 
To take all wretchedness for granted, — he, 
Reared in a stainless home, and radiant yet 
With the clear hues of healthful English youth. 
Had learned to kneel by beds forlorn, and stoop 
Under foul lintels. He could touch, with hand 
Unshrinking, fevered fingers ; he could hear 
The language of the lost, in haunt and den, — 
So dismal, that the coldest passer-by 
Must needs be sorry for them, and, albeit 
They cursed, would dare to speak no harder words 
Than these, — " God help them I " 

Ay ! a learned man 
The curate in all woes that plague mankind, — 
Too learned, for he was but young. His heart 
Had yearned till it was overstrained, and now 
He — plunged Into a narrow slough unblest, 
Had struggled with its deadly waters, till 
His own head had gone under, and he took 



4 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

Small joy in work he could not look to aid 
Its cleansing. 

Yet, by one right tender tie, 
Hope held him yet. The fathers coarse and dull, 
Vile mothers hard, and boys and girls profane. 
His soul drew back from. He had worked for them, 
Work without joy : but, in his heart of hearts. 
He loved the little children ; and, whene'er 
He heard their prattle innocent, and heard 
Their tender voices lisping sacred words 
That he had taught them, — in the cleanly calm 
Of decent school, by decent matron held, — 
Then would he say, " I shall have pleasure yet, 
In these." 

But now, when he pushed back that dooi 
And mounted up a flight of ruined stairs, 
He said not that. He said, " Oh ! once I thought 
The little children would make bright for me 
The crown they wear who have won many souls 
For righteousness ; but oh.; this evil place ! 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

Hard lines it gives them, cold and dirt abhorred, — 
Hunger and nakedness, in lieu of love, 
\nd blows instead of care. 

And so they die, 
The little children that I love, — they die, — 
They turn their wistful faces to the wall, 
And slip away to God." 

With that, his hand 
He laid upon a latch and lifted it. 
Looked in full quietly, and entered straight. 

What saw he there } He saw a three-years child, 

That lay a-dying on a wisp of straw 

Swept up into a corner. O'er its brow 

The damps of death were gathering : all alone, 

Uncared for, save that by its side was set 

A cup, it waited. And the eyes had ceased 

To look on things at hand. He thought they gazed 

In wistful wonder, or some faint surmise 

Of coming change, — as though they saw the gate 



O THE MONITIONS OF TEE UNSEEN. 

Of that fair land that seems to most of us 
Veiy far off. 

When he beheld the look, 
He said, *' I knew, I knew how this would be I 
Another ! Ay, and but for drunken blows 
And dull forgetfulness of infant need, 
This little one had lived." And thereupon 
The misery of it wrought upon him so, 
That, unaware, he wept. Oh ! then it was 
That, in the bending of his manly head. 
It came between the child and that whereon 
He gazed, and, when the curate glanced again, 
Those dying eyes, drawn back to earth once more, 
Looked up into his own, and smiled. 

He drew 
More near, and kneeled beside the small frail thing, 
Because the lips were moving ; and it raised 
Its baby hand, and stroked away his tears, 
And whispered, " Master ! master ! " and so died. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN, 

Now, in that town there was an ancient church, 
A minster of old days which these had turned 
To parish uses : there the curate served. 
It stood within a quiet swarded Close, 
Sunny and still, and, though it was not far 
From those dark courts where poor humanity 
Struggled and swarmed, it seemed to wear its own 
Still atmosphere about it, and to hold 
That old-world calm within its precincts pure 
And that grave rest which modern life foregoes. 

When the sad curate, rising from his knees. 
Looked from the dead to heaven, — as, unaware, 
Men do when they would track departed life, — 
He heard the deep tone of the minster-bell 
Sounding for service, and he turned away 
So heavy at heart, that, when he left behind 
That dismal habitation, and came out 
In the clear sunshine of the minster-yard. 
He never marked it. Up the aisle he moved, 



8 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

With his own gloom about him ; then came forth, 
And read before the folk grand words and calm, — 
Words full of hope ; but into his dull heart 
Hope came not. As one talketh in a dream, 
And doth not mark the sense of his own words, 
He read ; and, as one walketh in a dream. 
He after walked toward the vestment-room, 
And never marked the way he went by, — no. 
Nor the gray verger that before him stood. 
The great church-keys depending from his hand, 
Ready to follow him out and lock the door. 

At length, aroused to present things, but not 
Content to break the sequence of his thought, 
Nor ready for the working day that held 
Its busy course without, he said, " Good friend, 
Leave me the keys : I Would remain awhile." 
And, when the verger gave, he moved with him 
Toward the door distraught, then shut him out. 
And locked himself within the church alone 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN, 

The minster-church was like a great brown cave, 
Fhited and fine with pillars, and all dim 
With glorious gloom ; but, as the curate turned, 
Suddenly shone the sun, — and roof and walls, 
Aho the clustering shafts from end to end, 
Weie thickly sown all over, as it were, 
With seedling rainbows. And it went and came 
And went, that sunny beam, and drifted up 
Ethereal bloom to flush the open wings 
And carven cheeks of dimpled cherubim. 
And dropped upon the curate as he passed. 
And covered his white raiment and his hair. 

Then ^id look down upon him from their place, 

High in the upper lights, grave mitred priests. 

And grand old monarchs in their flowered gowns 

And capes of miniver ; and therewithal 

(A veiling cloud gone by) the naked sun 

'^mote with his burning splendor all the pile. 

And in there rushed, through half-translucent panes, 



lO . THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

A sombre glory as of rusted gold, 
Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and green, 
That made the floor a beauty and delight. 
Strewed as with phantom blossoms, sweet enough 
To have been wafted there the day they dropt 
On the flower-beds in heaven. 

The curate passed 
Adown the long south aisle, and did not think 
Upon this beauty, nor that he himself — 
Excellent in the strength of youth, and fair 
With all the majesty that noble work 
And stainless manners give — did add his part 
To make it fairer. 

In among the knights 
That lay with hands uplifted, by the lute 
And palm of many a saint, — 'neath capitals 
Whereon our fathers had been bold to carve 
With earthly tools their ancient childlike dream 
Concerning heavenly fruit and living bowers, 
And glad full-throated birds that sing up there 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. II 

Among the branches of the tree of life — 
Through all the ordered forest of the shafts, 
Shooting on high to enter into light, 
That swam aloft, — he took his silent way. 
And in the southern transept sat him down. 
Covered his face, and thought. 

He said, " No pain, 
No passion, and no aching, heart o' mine. 
Doth stir within thee. Oh ! I would there did : 
Thou art so dull, so tired. I have lost 
I know not what. I see the heavens as lead : 
They tend no whither. Ah ! the world is bared 
Of her enchantment now : she is but earth 
And water. And, though much hath passed away, 
There may be more to go. I may forget 
The joy and fear that have been : there may live 
No more for me the fervency of hope 
Nor the arrest of wonder. 

" Once I said, 
' Content will wait on work, though work appear 



t2 THE MOMTIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

Unfruitful/ Now I say, ' Where is the good? 
What is the good ? * A lamp when it is lit 
Must needs give light ; but I am like a man 
Holding his lamp in some deserted place 
Where no foot passeth. Must I trim my lamp, 
And ever painfully toil to keep it bright. 
When use for it is none ? I must ; I will. 
Though God withhold my wages, I must work, 
And watch the bringing of my work to nought, — 
Weed in the vineyard through the heat o' the day, 
And, overtasked, behold the weedy place 
Grow ranker yet in spite of me. 

"Oh! yet 
My meditated words are trodden down 
Like a little wayside grass. Castaway shells. 
Lifted and tossed aside by a plunging wave. 
Have no more force against it than have T 
Against the sweeping, weltering wave of life, 
That, lifting and dislodging me, drives on, 
And notes not mine endeavor." 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. H 

Afterward, 
He added more words like to these ; to wit, 
That it was hard to see the world so sad : 
lie would that it were happier. It was hard 
To s,ee the blameless overborne ; and hard 
To know that God, who loves the world, should yet 
Let it lie down in sorrow, when a smile 
From him would make it laugh and sing, — a word 
From him transform it to a heaven. He said. 
Moreover, "When will this be done? My life 
Hath not yet reached the noon, and I am tired ; 
And oh ! it may be that, uncomforted 
By foolish hope of doing good and vain 
Conceit of being useful, I may live, 
And it may be my duty to go on 
Working for years and years, for years and years.** 

But; while the words were uttered, in his heart 
Tliere dawned a vague alarm. He was aware 
That somewhat touched him, and he lifted up 



14 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

His face. " I am alone»" the curate said, — 
•' I think I am alone. What is it, then? 
I am ashamed ! My raiment is not clean. 
My lips, — I am afraid they are not clean. 
My heart is darkened and unclean. Ah me, 
To be a man, and yet to tremble so ! 
vStrange, strange ! " 

And there was sitting at his feet 
He could not see it plainly — at his feet 
A very little child. And, while the blood 
Drave to his heart, he set his eye on it. 
Gazing, and, lo ! the loveliness from heaven 
Took clearer form and color. He beheld 
The strange, wise sweetness of a dimpled mouth, — 
The deep serene of eyes at home with bliss. 
And perfect in possession. So it spoke, 
'• My master ! " but he answered not a word ; 
And it went on : "I had a name, a name. 
He knew my name ; but here they can forget." 
The curate answered : " Nav, I know thee well. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 1 5 

I love thee. Wherefore art thou come?" It said, 

*' They sent me ; " and he faltered, " Fold thy hand, 

O most dear little one ! for on it gleams 

A gem that is so bright I cannot look 

Thereon." It said, " When I did leave this world, 

That was a tear. But that was long ago ; 

For I have lived among the happy folk, 

You wot of, ages, ages." Then said he, 

" Do they forget us, while beneath the palms 

They take their infinite leisure?" And, with eyes 

That seemed to muse upon him, looking up 

In peace the little child made answer, " Nay ; " 

And murmured, in the language that he loved, 

" How is it that his hair is not yet white ; 

For I and all the others have been long 

Waiting for him to come." 

" And was it long? " 
The curate answered, pondering. " Time being done, 
Shall life indeed expand, and give the sense, 
In our to-con' e. of infinite extension?" 



t6 the monitions of the unseen. 

Then said the child, " In heaven we children talk 

Of the great matters, and our lips are wise ; 

But here I can but talk with thee in words 

That here I knew." And therewithal, arisen. 

It said, " I pray you take me ir. your arms." 

Then, being afraid but willing, so he did ; 

And partly drew about the radiant child, 

For better covering its dread purity, 

The foldings of his gown. And he beheld 

Its beauty, and the tremulous woven light 

That hung upon its hair ; withal, the robe, 

'Whiter than fuller of this world can white,* 

That clothed its immortality. And so 

The trembling came again, and he was dumb, 

Repenting his imcleanness : and he lift 

His eyes, and all the holy place was full 

Of living things ; and some were faint and dim, 

As if they bore an intermittent life. 

Waxing and waning ; and they had no form, 

But drifted on like slowl} trailed clouds, 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 1 7 

Or moving spots of darkness, with an eye 

Apiece. And some, in guise of evil birds. 

Came by in troops, and stretched their naked necks, 

And some were men-like, but their heads hung down ; 

And he said, " O my God ! let me find grace 

Not to behold their faces, for I know 

They must be wicked and right terrible." 

But while he prayed, lo ! whispers ; and there moved 

Two shadows on the wall. He could not see 

The forms of tliem that cast them : he could see 

Only the shadows as of two that sat 

Upon the floor, where, clad in women's weeds, 

They lisped together. And he shuddered much : 

There was a rustling near him, and he feared 

Lest they should touch him, and he feel their touch. 

" It is not great,** quoth one, " the work achieved. 
We do, and we delight to do, our best : 
But that is little ; for, mv dear," quoth she, 
" This tower and town have been infested long 



1 8 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN, 

With angels." — "Ay," the other made reply, 

" I had a little evil-one, of late, 

That I picked up as it was crawling out 

O' the pit, and took and cherished in my breast. 

It would divine for me, and oft would moan, 

* Pray thee, no churches,' and it spake of this. 

But I was harried once, — thou know'st by whom, — « 

And fled in here ; and, when he followed me, 

I crouching by this pillar, he let down 

His hand, — being all too proud to send his e}^s 

In its wake, — and, plucking forth my tender imp, 

Flung it behind him. It went yelping forth ; 

And, as for me, I never saw it more. 

Much is against us, — very much : the times 

Are hard." She paused : her fellow took the word, 

Plaining on such as preach and them that plead. 

" Even such as haunt the yawning mouths of hell," 

Quoth she, " and pluck them back that run thereto." 

Then, like a sudden blow, there fell on him 

The utterance of his name. " There is no soul 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 1 9 

That I loathe more, and oftener curse. Woe's me, 
That cursing should be vain ! Ay, he will go 
Gather the sucking children, that are yet 
Too young for us, and watch and shelter them 
Till the strong Angels — pitiless and stern. 
But to them loving ever — sweep them in, 
By armsful, to the unapproachable fold. 

*' We strew his path with gold : it will not lie. 
' Deal softly with him,* was the master's word. 
We brought him all delights : his angel came 
And stood between them and his eyes. They spend 
Much pains upon him, — keep him poor and low 
And unbeloved ; and thus he gives his mind 
To fill the fateful, the impregnable 
Child-fold, and sow on earth the seed of stars. 

*' Oh ! hard is serving against love, — the love 

Of the Unspeakable ; for if we soil 

The souls He openeth out a washing-place ; 



20 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

And if we grudge, and snatch away the bread, 
Then will He save by poverty, and gain 
By early giving up of blameless life ; 
And if we shed out gold. He even will save 
In spite of gold, — of twice-refined gold." 

With that the curate set his daunted eyes 
To look upon the shadows of the fiends. 
He was made sure they could not see the child 
That nestled in his arms ; he also knew 
They were unconscious that his mortal ears 
Had new intelligence, which gave their speech 
Possible entrance through his garb of clay. 

He was afraid, yet awful gladness reached 
His soul : the testimony of the lost 
Upbraided him ; but while he trembled yet, 
The heavenly child had lifted up its head 
And left his arms, and on the marble floor 
Stood beckoninsf. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 21 

And, its touch withdrawn, the place 
Was silent, empty ; all that swarming tribe 
Of evil ones concealed behind the veil, 
And shut into their separate world, were closed 
From his observance. He arose, and paced 
After the little child, — as half in fear 
That it would leave him, — till they reached a door; 
And then said he, — but much distraught he spoke, 
Laying his hand across the lock, — " This door 
Shuts in the stairs whereby men mount the tower. 
Wouldst thou go up, and so withdraw to heaven ? ** 
It answered, " I will mount them." Then said he, 
''And I will follow." — " So thou shalt do well," 
The radiant thing replied, and it went up. 
And he, amazed, went after ; for the stairs, 
Otherwhile dark, were lightened by the rays 
Shed out of raiment woven in high heaven. 
And hair whereon had smiled tlie light of God. 

With tnat, they, pacing on, came out at last 



22 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

Into a dim, weird place, — a chamber formed 

Betwixt the roofs : for you shall know that all 

The vaulting of the nave, fretted and fine, 

Was covered with the dust of ages, laid 

Thick with those chips of stone which they had left 

Who wrought it ; but a high-pitched roof was reared 

Above it, and the western gable pierced 

With three long narrow lights. Great tie-beams loomed 

Across, and many daws frequented there, 

The starling and the sparrow littered it 

With straw, and peeped from many a shad}*" nook ; 

And there was lifting up of wings, and there 

Was hasty exit when the curate came. 

But sitting on a beam and moving not 

For him, he saw two fair gray turtle-doves 

Bowing their heads, and cooing ; and the child 

Put forth a hand to touch his own, but straight 

He, startled, drew it back, because, forsooth, 

A stirring fancy smote him, and he thought 

That language trembled on their innocent tongues, 

And floated forth in speech that man could hear 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 23 

Then said the child, " Yet touch, my master dear." 
And he let down his hand, and touched again ; 
And so it was. " But if they had their way," 
One turtle cooed, " how should this world go on.?" 

Then he looked well upon them, as he stood 

U^Dright before them. They were feathered doves, 

And sittmg close together ; and their eyes 

Were rounded with the rim that marks their kind. 

Their tender crimson feet did pat the beam, — 

No phantoms they ; and soon the fellow-dove 

Made answer, " Nay, they count themselves so wise, 

There is no task they shall be set to do 

But they will ask God why. What mean they so ? 

The glory is not in the task, but in 

The doing it for Him. What should he think, 

Brother, this man that must, forsooth, be set 

Such noble work, and suffered to behold 

Its fruit, if he knew more of us and ours?" 



24 TEE MONITIONS OF TEE UNSEEN, 

With that the other leaned, as if attent : 

*' I am not perfect, brother, in his thought." 

The mystic bird replied, " Brother, he saith, 

* But it is nought : the work is overhard.*' 

Whose fault is that? God sets not overwork. 

He saith the world is sorrowful, and he 

Is therefore sorrowful. He cannot set 

The crooked straight ; — but who demands of him, 

O brother, that he should } What ! thinks he, then. 

His work is God's advantage, and his will 

More bent to aid the world than its dread Lord's. 

Nay, yet there live amongst us legions fair, 

Millions on millions, who could do right well 

What he must fail in ; and 'twas whispered me, 

That chiefly for himself the task is given, — 

His little daily task." With that he paused. 

Then said the other, preening its fair wing, 
" Men have discovered all God's islands now, 
And given them names ; whereof they are as proud, 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 25 

And deem themselves as great, as if their hands 

Had made them. Strange is man, and strange his pride. 

Now, as for us, it matters not to learn 

Wliat and from whence we be : How shoidd we tell ? 

Our world is undiscovered in these skies, 

Our names not whispered. Yet, for us and ours, 

What joy it is, — permission to come down. 

Not souls, as he, to the bosom of their God, 

To guide, but to their goal the winged fowls, 

His lovely lower-fashioned lives to help 

To take their forms by legions, fly, and draw 

With us the sweet, obedient, flocking things 

That ever hear our message reverently. 

And follow us far. How should they know their way, 

Forsooth, alone? Men say they fly alone ; 

Yet some have set on record, and averred, 

That they, among the flocks, had duly marked 

A leader." 

Then his fellow made reply : 
" They migiit divine the Maker's heart. Come forth, 



26 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN, 



Fair dove, to find the flocks, and guide their wings, 
For Him that loveth them." 

With that, the child 
Withdrew his hand, and all their speech was done. 
He moved toward them, but they fluttered forth 
And fled into the sunshine. 

" I would fain," 
Said he, " have heard some more. And wilt thou go'** 
He added to the child, for this had turned. 
" Ay," quoth he, gently, " to the beggar's place ; 
For I would see the beggar in the porch." 

4 

So they went down together to the door. 

Which, wlien the curate opened, lo ! without 

The beggar sat ; and he saluted him : 

*' Good morrow, master." "Wherefore art thou here?" 

The curate asked : " it is not service-time, 

And none will enter now to give thee alms." 

Then said the beggar, " I have hope at heart 

That I shall go to my poor house no more." 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 27 

* Art thou so sick that thou dost think to die ? " 
The curate said. With that the beggar laughed, 
And under his dim eyelids gathered tears, 
And he was all a-tremble with a strange 
And moving exaltation. " Ay," quoth he. 
And set his face toward high heaven : " I think 
The blessing that I wait on must be near." 
Then said the curate, " God be good to thee." 
And, straight, the little child put forth his hand, 
And touched him. " Master, master, hush ! 
You should not, master, speak so carelessly 
In this great presence." 

But the touch so wrought^ 
That, Ip ! the dazzled curate staggered back. 
For dread effulgence from the beggar's eyes 
Smote him, and from the crippled limbs shot forth 
Perrible lights, as pure long blades of fire. 
'' Withdraw thy touch ! withdraw thy touch ! " he cried, 
■' Or else shall I be blinded." Then the child 
Stood back from him ; and he sat down apart. 



28 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

Recovering of his manhood : and he heard 
The beggar and the child discourse of things 
Dreadful for glory, till his spirits came 
Anew ; and, when the beggar looked on him, 
He said, " If I offend not, pray you tell 
Who and what are you — I behold a face 
Marred with old age, sickness, and poverty, — 
A cripple with a staff, who long hath sat 
Begging, and ofttimes moaning, in the porch, 
For pain and for the wind's inclemency. 
What are you ? " Then the beggar made reply, 
*' I was a delegate, a living power ; 
My work was bliss, for seeds were in my hand 
To plant a new-made world. O happy work ! 
It grew and blossomed ; but my dwelling-place 
Was far remote from heaven. I have not seen ; 
I knew no wish to enter there. But, lo ! 
There went forth rumors, running out like rays. 
How some, that were of power like even to mine. 
Had made request to come and find a place 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 29 

Within its walls. And these were satisfied 

With promises, and sent to this far world 

To take the weeds of your mortality, 

And minister, and suffer grief and pain, 

And die like men. Then were they gathered in. 

They saw a face, and were accounted kin 

To Whom thou knowest, for he is kin to men. 

^' Then I did wait ; and oft, at work, I sang, 

* To minister ! oh,* joy, to minister ! ' 

And, it being known, a message came to me : 

* Whether is best, thou forest-planter wise, 
To minister to others, or that they 

Should minister to thee ? * Then, on my face 
Low lying, I made answer : ' It is best. 
Most High, to minister ; * and thus came back 
The answer, — ' Choose not for thyself the best : 
Go down, and, lo ! my poor shall minister, 
Out of their poverty, to thee ; shall learn 
Compassion by thy frailty ; and shall oft 
Turn back, when speeding home from work, to help 



3© TBE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

Thee, weak and crippled, home. My little oneSj 
Thou shalt importune for their slender mite, 
And pray, and move them that they give it up 
For love of Me.' " 

The curate answered him, 
" Art thou content, O great one from afar ! 
If I may ask, and not offend.?" He said, 
" I am. Behold ! I stand not all alone, 
1 hat I should think to do a perfect work. 
I may not wish to give ; for I have heard 
'Tis best for me that I receive. For me. 
God is the only giver, and His gift 
Is one." With that, the little child sighed out, 
" O master ! master ! I am out of heaven 
Since noonday, and I hear them calling me. 
If you be ready, great one, let us go : — 
Hark ! hark ! they call." 

Then did the beggar lift 
His face to heaven, and utter forth a cry 
As of the pangs of death, and every tree 
Moved as if shaken by a sudden wind. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 3 1 

He cried again, and there came forth a hand 
From some invisible form, which, being laid 
A little moment on the curate's eyes. 
It dazzled him with light that brake from it, 
So that he saw no more. 

"What shall I do?" 
The curate murmured, when he came again 
To himself and looked about him. " This is strange I 
My thoughts are all astray ; and yet, methinks, 
A weight is taken from my heart. Lo ! lo ! 
There lieth at my feet, frail, white, and dead, 
The sometime beggar. He is happy now. 
There was a child ; but he is gone, and he 
Is also happy. I am glad to think 
I am not bound to make the wrong go right ; 
But only to discover, and to do 
With cheerful heart, the work that God appoints." 

With that, he did compose, with reverent care, 
The dead ; continuing, " I will trust in Him, 
That he can hold his own ; and I will take 



32 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

His will, above the work He sendeth me, 
To be my chiefest good." 

Then went he forth, 
" I shall die early," thinking : '* I am warned, 
By this fair vision, that I have not long 
To live." Yet he lived on to good old age ; — 
Ay, he lives yet, and he is working still. 



It may be there are many in like case : 
They give themselves, and are in misery 
Because the gift is small, and doth not make 
The world by so much better as they fain 
Would have it. 'Tis a fault ; but, as for us, 
Let us not blame them. Maybe, 'tis a fault 
More kindly looked on by The Majesty 
Than our best virtues are. Why, what are we ! 
What have we given, and what have we desired 
To give, the world } 

There must be something wrong 
Look to it : let us mend our ways. Farewell. 



33 



A BIRTHDAY WAI.K. 
(written for a friend's birthday.) 

"The days of our life are threescore years and ten." 

A BIRTHDAY : — and now a day that rose 
With much of hope, with meaning rife — 
A thoughtful day from dawn to close : 
The middle day of human life. 

In sloping fields on narrow plains, 

The sheep were feeding on their knees 

As we went through the winding lanes. 
Strewed with red buds of alder-trees. 

2* 



H -•! BTRTHDAT WALK. 

So warm the day — its influence lent 
To flagging thought a stronger wing ; 

So utterly was winter spent, 

So sudden was the birth of spring. 

Wild crocus flowers in copse and hedge — 
In sunlight, clustering thick below, 

Sighed for the firwood's shaded ledge, 
Where sparkled yet a line of snow. 

And crowded snowdrops faintly hung 
Their fair heads lower for the heat, 

While in still air all branches flung 
Their shadowy doubles at our feet. 

And through the hedge the sunbeams crept, 
Dropped through the maple and the birch ; 

And lost in airy distance slept 

On the broad tower of Tamworth Church. 



A BIRTHDAY WALK. 3 5 

Then, lingering on the downward way, 

A little space we resting stood. 
To watch the golden haze that lay 

Adown that river by the wood. 

A distance vague, the bloom of sleep 
The constant sun had lent the scene, 

A veiling charm on dingles deep 

Lay soft those pastoral hills between. 

There are some days that die not out. 

Nor alter bjp- reflection's power, 
Whose converse calm, whose words devout, 

For ever rest, the spirit's dower. 

And they are days when drops a veil — 

A mist upon the distance past ; 
And while we say to peace — " All hail I " 

We hope that always it shall last. 



^6 A BIRTHDAY WALK. 

Times when the troubles of the heart 

Are hushed — as winds were hushed that day — 

And budding hopes begin to start, 

Like those green hedgerows on our way : 

When all within and all around, 

Like hues on that sweet landscape blend, 

And Nature's hand has made to sound 
The heartstrings that her touch attend : 

When there are rays within, like those 

That streamed through maple «nd through birch, 

And rested in such calm repose 

On the broad tower of Tamworth Church. 



37 



NOT IN VAIN I WAITED. 

She was but a child, a child, 

And I a man grown ; 
Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild. 
And, I thought, my own. 
What could I do ? The long grass groweth. 

The long wave floweth with a murmur on : 
The why and the wherefore of it all who knoweth ? 

Ere I thought to lose her she was grown — and gone. 
This day or that day in warm spring weather. 
The lamb that was tame will yearn to break its tether. 
" But if the world wound thee," I said, " come back to 

me, 
Down in the dell wishing — wishing, wishing for thee." 



3^ NOT IN VAIN I WAITED. 

The dews hang on the white may, 

Like a ghost it stands, 
All in the dusk before day 
That folds the dim lands : 
Dark fell the skies when once belated. 

Sad, and sorrow-fated, I missed the sun ; 
But wake, neart, and sing, for not in vain I waited. 
O clear, O solemn dawning, lo, the maid is won I 
Sweet dews, dry early on the grass and clover. 
Lest the bride wet her feet while she walks over ; 
Shine to-day, sunbeams, and make all fair to see : 
Down the dell she's coming — coming, coming with me. 



39 



A GLEANING SONG. 

" Whither away, thou little careless rover ? 

(Kind Roger's true) 
Whither away, across yon bents and clover, 
Wet, wet with dew ? " 
'* Roger here, Roger there — 

Roger — O, he sighed. 
Yet let me glean among the wheat, 
Nor sit kind Roger's bride." 

" What wilt thou do when all the gleaning's ended, 

What wilt thou do? 
The cold will come, and fog and frost-work blended 

(Kind Roger's true)." 



40 A GLEANING SONG. 

*' Sleet and rain, cloud and storm, 

When they cease to frown 
I'll bind me primrose bunches sweet. 

And cry them up the town." 

*' What if at last thy careless heart awaking 

This day thou rue ? " 
" ril cry my flowers, and think for all its breaking, 
Kind Roger's true ; 
Roger here, Roger there, 
O, my true love sighed. 
Sigh once, once more, I'll stay my feet 
And rest kind Roger's bride." 



41 



WITH A DIAMOND. 

TT 7HILE Time a grim old lion gnawing lay, 

And muml^.lcd with his teeth yon regal tomb, 
Like some immortal tear undimmed for aye, 

This gem was dropped among the dust of doom. 

Dropped, haply, by a sad, forgotten queen, 
A tear to outlast name, and fame, and tongue : 

Her other tears, and ours, all tears terrene. 
For great new griefs to be hereafter sung. 

Take it, — a goddess might have wept such tears, 
Or Dame Electra changed into a star. 

That waxed so dim because her children's years 
In leaguered Troy were bitter through long war. 

Not till the end to end grow dull or waste, — 
Ah, what a little while the light we share I 

Hand after hand shall yet with this be graced, 
Signing the Will that leaves it to an heir. 



42 



FANCY. 

( \ FANCY, if thou flyest, come back anon, 

Thy fluttering wings are soft as love*s first word, 
And fragrant as the feathers of that bird, 
Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon. 
I ask thee not to work, or sigh — play on, 

From nought that was not, was, or is, deterred ; 

The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have stirred, 
And waved memorial grass of Marathon. 
Play, but be gentle, not as on that day 

I saw thee running down the rims of doom 
With stars thou hadst been stealing — while they lay 

Smothered in light and blue — clasped to thy breast; 
Bring rather to me in the firelit room 

A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest. 



43 



COMPENSATION. 

/^^NE launched a ship, but she was wrecked at sea ; 

He built a bridge, but floods have borne it down ; 
He meant much good, none came : strange destiny, 

His corn lies sunk, his bridge bears none to town, 

Yet good he had not meant became his crown ; 
For once at work, when even as nature free, 

Fronj thought of good he was, or of renown, 
God took the work for good and let good be. 
So wakened with a trembling after sleep, 

Dread Mona Roa yields her fateful store ; 
Al\ gleaming hot the scarlet rivers creep. 

And fanned of great-leaved palms slip to the shore, 
Then stolen to unplumbed wastes of that far deep, 

Lay the foundations for one island more. 



44 



LOOKING DOWN. 

1^ /FOUNTAINS of sorrow, I have heard your moans, 
And the moving of your pines ; but we sit hig'h 
On your green shoulders, nearer stoops the sky, 
And pure airs visit us from all the zones. 

Sweet world beneath, too happy far to sigh, 
Dost thou look thus beheld from heavenly thrones ? 
No ; not for all the love that counts thy stones, . 

While sleepy with great light the valleys lie. 
Strange, rapturous peace ! its sunshine doth enfold 

My heart ; I have escaped to the days divine, 
It seemeth as bygone ages back had rolled. 

And all the eldest past was now, was mine ; 
Nay, even as if Melchizedec of old 

Might here come forth to us with bread and wine. 



45 



MARRIED LOVERS. 

/'~^OME away, the clouds are high, 

Put the flashing needles by. 
Many days are not to spare, 
Or to waste, my fairest fair! 
All is read}-. Come to-day, 
For the nightingale her lay, 
When she findeth that the whole 
Of her love, and all her soul, 
Cannot forth of her sweet throat, 
Sobs the while she draws her breath, 
And the bravery of her note 
In a few days altereth. 

Come, ere she despond, and see 
In a silent ecstasy 

Chestnuts heave for hours and hours 
All the glory of their flowers 



46 MARRIED LOVERS. 

To the melting blue above, 
That broods over them like love. 
Leave the garden walls, where blow 
Apple-blossoms pink, and low 
Ordered beds of tulips fine. 
Seek the blossoms made divine 
With a scent that is their soul. 
These are soulless. Bring the white 
Of thy gown to bathe in light 
Walls for Tiarrow hearts. The whole 
Earth is found, and air and sea, 
Not too wide for thee and me. 

Not too wide, and yet thy face 

Gives the meaning of all space , 

And thine eyes, with starbeams fraught, 

Hold the measure of all thought ; 

For of them my soul besought, 

And was shown a glimpse of thine — 

A veiled vestal, with divine 



MARRIED LOVERS, 47 

Solace, in sweet love*s despair, 
For that life is brief as fair. 
Who hath most, he yearneth most, 
Sure, as seldom heretofore. 
Somewhere of the gracious more. 
Deepest joy the least shall boast, 
Asking with new-opened eyes 
The remainder ; that which lies 
O, so fair ! but not all conned — 
O, so near ! and yet beyond. 

Come, and in the woodland sit, 
Seem a wonted part of it. 
Then, while moves the delicate air, 
And the glories of thy hair 
Little flickering sun-rays strike, 
Let me see what thou art like ; 
For great love enthralls me so. 
That, in sooth, I scarcely know. 



48 MARRlJil) LOVERS. 

Show me, in a house all green, 
Save for long gold wedges' sheen, 
Where the flies, white sparks of fire, 
Dart and hover and aspire. 
And the leaves, air-stirred on high. 
Feel such joy they needs must sigh, 
And the untracked grass makes sweet 
All fair flowers to touch thy feet. 
And the bees about them hum. 
All the world is waiting. Come 1 



49 



A WINTER SONG. 

/^^AME the dread Archer up yonder lawn — 

Night is the time for the old to die — 
But woe for an arrow that smote the fawn, 

When the hind that was sick unscathed went by. 

Father lay moaning, " Her fault was sore 
(Night is the time when the old must die), 

Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once more, 
For heart is failing : the end is nigh/* 

" Daughter, my daughter, my girl," I cried 
(Night is the time for the old to die) 

" Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide " — 
Dark was the welkin and wild the sky. 
3 



50 A WIN JAR SONG. 

Heavily plunged from th«^ roof the snow — • 
(Night is the time when the old will die), 

She answered, "My mother, 'tis well, I go." 
Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew high. 

First at his head, and last at his feet 

(Night is the time when the old should die), 

Kneeling I watched till his soul did fleet. 

None else that loved him, none else were nigh, 

I wept in the night as the desolate weep 
(Night is the time for the old to die), 

Cometh my daughter? the drifts are deep. 
Across the cold hollows how white they lie. 

I sought her afar through the spectral trees 
(Night is the time when the old must die). 

The fells were all muffled, the floods did freeze, 
And a wrathful moon hung red in the sky. 



A WINTER SONG. 5 1 

By night I found her where pent waves steal 
(Night is the time when the old should die), 

But she lay stiff by the locked mill-wheel, 

And the old stars lived in their homes on high. 



52 



BINDING SHEAVES. 

TTARK ! a lover binding sheaves 

To his maiden sings, 
Flutter, flutter go the leaves, 

Larks drop their v^^ings. 
Little brooks for all their mirth 

Are not blythe as he. 
" Give me what the love is worth 

That I give thee. 

" Speech that cannot be forborne 

Tells the story through : 
I sowed my love in with the corn, 

And they both grew. 
Count the world full wide of girth, 

And hived honey sweet. 
But c^nt the love of more worth 

Laid at thy feet. 



BINDINti SHEAVES. 53 

** Money's worth is house and land, 

Velvet coat and vest. 
Work's worth is bread in hand, 

Ay, and sweet rest. 
Wilt thou learn what love is worth ? 

Ah ! she sits above, 
Sighing, ' Weigh me not with earth, 

Love's worth is love.' " 



54 



WORK. 

T IKE coral insects multitudinous 

The minutes are whereof our life is made. 

They build it up as in the deep's blue shade 
It grows, it comes to light, and then, and thus 
For both there is an end. The populous 

Sea-blossoms close, our minutes that have paid 

Life's debt of work are spent ; the work is laid 
Before our feet that shall come after us. 
We may not stay to watch if it will speed, 

The bard*if on some luter's string his song 
Live sweetly yet ; the hero if his star 
Doth shine. Work is its own best earthly meed, 

Else have we none more than the sea-born throng 
Who wrong it those marvellous isles that bloom afar. 



WISHING. 

When I reflect how little I have done, 
And add to that how little I have seen, 

Then furthermore how little I have won 
Of joy, or good, how little known, or been : 
I long for other life more full, more keen. 

And yearn to change with such as well have run — 
Yet reason mocks me — nay, the soul, I ween. 

Granted her choice would dare to change with none ; 

No, — not to feel, as Blondel when his lay 

Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered it ■ 

No, not to do, as Eustace on the day 
He left fair Calais to her weeping fit — 

No, not to be, — Columbus, waked from sleep 

When his new world rose from the charmed deep. 



5« 



TO . 

Strange was the doom of Heracles, whose shade 

Had dwelling in dim Hades the u ablest, 

While yet his form and presence sat a guest 
With the old immortals when the feast was made. 
Thine like, thus differs ; form and presence laid 

In this dim chamber of enforced rest, 

It is the unseen " shade " which, risen, hath pressed 
Above all heights where feet Olympian strayed. 
My soul admires to hear thee speak ; thy thought 

Falls from a high place like an August star, 
Or some great eagle from his air-hung rings — 

When swooping past a snow-cold mountain scar — 
Down the steep slope of a long sunbeam brought, 

He stirs the wheat with the steerage of his wings, . 



57 



ON THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE. 

A COTTAGER leaned whispering by her hives, 
Telling the bees some news, as they lit down, 
And entered one by one their waxen town. 

Larks passioning hung o'er their brooding wives, 

And all the sunny hills where heather thrives 
Lay satisfied with peace. A stately crown 
Of trees enringed the upper headland brown, 

And reedy pools, wherein the moor-hen dives. 

Glittered and gleamed. 

A resting-place for light. 

They that were bred here love it ; but they say, 
" We shall not have it long ; in three years' time 

A hundred pits will cast out fires by night, 

Down yon still glen their smoke shall trail its way. 
And the white ash lie thick in lieu of rime." 
3* 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

/^^NCE on a time there walked a mariner, 

That had been shipwrecked ; — on a lonely shore, 
And the green water made a restless stir, 

And a great flock of mews sped on before. 
He had nor food nor shelter, for the tide 
Rose on the one, and cliffs on the other side. 

Brown cliffs they were ; they seemed to pierce the sky, 

That was an awful deep of empty blue, 
Save that the wind was in it, and on high 

A wavering skein of wild-fowl tracked it through. 
He marked them not, but went with movement slow, 
Because his thoughts were sad, his courage low. 



niE MARINER'S CAVE. ^Q 

His heart was numb, he neither wept nor sighed. 

But wearifully lingered by the wave ; 
Until at length it chanced that he espied, 

Far up, an opening in the cliff, a cave, 
A shelter where to sleep in his distress. 
And lose his sorrow in forgetfulness. 

With that he clambered up the rugged face 
Of that steep cliff that all in shadow lay, 

And, lo, there was a dry and homelike place. 
Comforting refuge for the castaway ; 

And he laid down his weary, weary head, 

And took his fill of sleep till dawn waxed red. 

When he awoke, warm stirring from the south 
Of delicate summer air did sough and flow ; 

He rose, and, wending to the cavern's mouth. 
He cast his eyes a little way below 

Where on the narrow ledges, sharp and rude. 

Preening their wings the blue rock-pigeons cooed 



6o THE MARINERS CAVE. 

Then he looked lower and saw the lavender 
And sea-thrift blooming in long crevices, 

And the brown wallflower — April's messenger, 
The wallflower marshalled in her companies. 

Then lower yet he looked adown the steep. 

And sheer beneath him lapped the lovely deep. 

The laughing deep ; — and it was pacified 
As if it had not raged that other day. 

And it went murmuring in the morningtide 
Innumerable flatteries on its way, 

Kissing the cliffs and whispering at their feet 

With exquisite advancement, and retreat. 

This when the mariner beheld he sighed. 
And thought on his companions lying low. 

But while he gazed with eyes unsatisfied 
On the fair reaches of their overthrow, 

Thinking it strange he only lived of all. 

But not returning thanks, he heard a call I 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 6l 

A soft sweet call, a voice of tender ruth, 

He thought it came from out the cave. And, lo, 

It v^hispered, " Man, look up ! " But he, forsooth, 
Answered, " I cannot, for the long waves flow 

Across my gallant ship where sunk she lies 

With all my riches and my merchandise. 

" Moreover, I am heavy for the fate 

Of these my mariners drowned in the deep ; 

I must lament me for their sad estate 

Now they are gathered in their last long sleep. 

O ! the unpitying heavens upon me frown, 

Then how should I look up ? — I must look down." 

And he stood yet watching the fair green sea 
Till hunger reached him ; then he made a fire, 

A driftwood fire, and wandered listlessly 
And gathered many eggs at his desire, 

And dressed them for his meal, and then he lay 

And slept, and woke upon the second day. 



62 THE MARINER'S CAVJS. 

Wheiias he said, " The cave shall be my home ; 

None will molest me, for the brown cliffs rise 
Like castles of defence behind, — the foam 

Of the remorseless sea beneath me lies ; 
Tis easy from the cliff my food to win — 
The nations of the rock-dove breed therein. 

" For fuel, at the ebb yon fair expanse 

Is strewed with driftwood by the breaking wave 

And in the sea is fish for sustenance. 

I will build up the entrance of the cave, 

And leave therein a window and a door. 

And here will dwell and leave it nevermore." 

Then even so he did ; and when his task, 
Many long days being over, was complete 

When he had eaten, as he sat to bask 
In the red firelight glowing at his feet, 

He was right glad of shelter, and he said, 

"Now for my comrades am I comforted.** 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 63 

Then did the voice awake and speak again ; 

It murmured, " Man, look up ! " But he replied, 
*' I cannot. O, mine eyes, mine eyes are fain 

Down on the red wood-ashes to abide 
Because they warm me." Then the voice was still, 
And left the lonely mariner to his will. 

And soon it came to pass that he got gain. 

He had gi'eat flocks of pigeons which he fed. 
And drew great store of fish from out the main. 

And down from eiderducks ; and then he said, 
" It is not good that I should lead my life 
In silence, I will take to me a wife." 

He took a wife, and brought her home to him ; 

And he was good to her and cherished her 
So that she loved him ; then when light waxed dim 

Gloom came no more ; and she would minister 
To all his wants ; while he, being well content, 
Counted her company right excellent. 



64 THE MARINERS CAVE. 

But once as on the lintel of the door 

She leaned to watch him wh'le he put to sea, 

This happy wife, down-gazing at the shore. 
Said sweetly, " It is better now with me 

Than it was lately when I used to spin 

In my old father's house beside the lin." 

And then the soft voice of the cave awoke — 
The soft voice which had haunted it erewhile — 

And gently to the wife it also spoke, 

" Woman, look up ! " But she, with tender guile 

Ga\ie it denial, answering, " Nay, not so, 

For all that I should look on lieth below. 

" The great sky overhead is not so good 
For my two eyes as yonder stainless sea, 

The source and yielder of our livelihood, 
Where rocks his little boat that loveth me." 

This when the wife had said she moved away. 

And xooked no higher than the wave all day. 



THE MARINERS CAVE. 65 

Now when the year ran out a child she bore, 
And there was such rejoicing in the cave 

As surely never had there been before 

Since God first made it. Then full, sweet, and grave, 

The voice, " God's utmost blessing brims thy cup, 

O, father of this child, look up, look up ! " 

" Speak to my wife," the mariner replied. 

" I have much work — right welcome work 'tis true — 
Another mouth to feed." And then it sighed, 

" Woman, look up ! " She said, " Make no ado. 
For I must needs look down, on anywise, 
My heaven is in the blue of these dear eyes." 

The seasons of the ydar did swiftly whirl, 
They measured time by one small life alone ; 

On such a day the pretty pushing pearl 

That mouth they loved to kiss had sweetly shown. 

That smiling mouth, and it had made essay 

To give them names on such another day. 



66 THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

A.nd afterward his infant history, 

Whether he played with baubles on the floor, 
Or crept to pat the rock-doves pecking nigh, 

And feeding on the threshold of the door, 
They loved to mark, and all his marvellings dim, 
The mysteries that beguiled and baffled him. 

He was so sweet, that oft his mother said, 
" O, child, how was it that I dwelt content 

Before thou camest? Blessings on thy head. 
Thy pretty talk it is so innocent, 

That oft for all my joy, though it be deep. 

When thou art prattling, I am like to weep." 

Summer and winter spent themselves again. 
The rock-doves in their season bred, the cliff 

Grew sweet, for every cleft would entertain 
Its tuft of blossom, and the mariner's skifT, 

Early and late, would linger in the bay, 

Because the sea was calm and winds away. 



THE MARINERS CAVE. 67 

The little child about that rocky height, 

Led by her loving hand who gave him birth, 

Might wander in the clear unclouded light, 
And take his pastime in the beauteous earth ; 

Smell the fair flowers in stony cradles swung, 

And see God*s happy creatures feed their young. 

And once it came to pass, at eventide. 

His mother set him in the cavern door. 
And filled his lap with grain, and stood aside 

To watch the circling rock-doves soar, and soar, 
Then dip, alight, and run in circling bands. 
To take the barley from his open hands. 

And even while she stood and gazed at him. 
And his grave father's eyes upon him dwelt. 

They heard the tender voice, and it was dim, 
And seemed full softly in the air to melt ; 

" Father," it murmured, " Mother," dying away, 

" Look up, while yet the hours are called to-day." 



68 THE MARINERS CAVE. 

" I will," the father answered, " but not now ; " 
The mother said, " Sweet voice, O speak to me 

At a convenient season." And the brow 
Of the cHff began to quake right fearfully. 

There was a rending crash, and there did leap 

A riven rock and plunge into the deep. 

They said, " A storm is coming ; " but they slept 

That night in peace, and thought the storm had passed, 

For there was not a cloud to intercept 
The sacred moonlight on the cradle cast ; 

And to his rocking boat at dawn of day, 

With joy of heart the mariner took his way. 

But when he mounted up the path at night, 
Foreboding not of trouble or mischance, 

His wife came out into the fading light, 
And met him with a serious countenance ; 

And she broke out in tears and sobbings thick, 

" The child is sick, my little child is sick." 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 69 

They knelt beside him in the sultry dark, 

And when the moon looked in his face was pale, 

And when the red sun, like a burning barque. 
Rose in a fog at sea, his tender wail 

Sank deep into their hearts, and piteously 

They fell to chiding of their destiny. 

The doves unheeded cooed that livelong day, 
Their pretty playmate cared for them no more ; 

The sea-thrift nodded, wet with glistening spray, 
N6ne gathered it ; the long wave washed the shore ; 

He did not know, nor lift his eyes to trace. 

The new fallen shadow in his dwelling-place. 

The sultry sun beat on the CiifTs all day. 

And hot calm airs slept on the polished sea. 

The mournful mother wore her time away. 
Bemoaning of her helpless misery, 

Pleading and plaining, till the day was done, 

" O look on me, my love, my little one. 



yo THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

" What alleth thee, that thou dost lie and moan? 

Ah would that I might bear it in thy stead." 
The father made not his forebodings known, 

But gazed, and in his secret soul he said, 
" I may have sinned, on sin waits punishment, 
But as for him, sweet blameless innocent, 

" What has he done that he is stricken down ? 

O it is hard to see him sink and fade. 
When I, that counted him my dear life's crown. 

So willingly have worked while he has played ; 
That he might sleep, have risen, come storm, come heat 
And thankfully would fast that he might eat." 

My God, how short our happy days appear ! 

How long the sorrowful ! They thought it long, 
The sultry morn that brought such evil cheer, 

And sat, and wished, and sighed for evensong ; 
It came, and cooling wafts about him stirred, 
Yet when they spoke he answered not a word. 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 71 

f* Take heart," they cried, but their sad hearts sank low 
When he would moan and turn his restless head, 

And wearily the lagging morns would go, 

And nights, while they sat watching by his bed, 

Until a storm came up with wind and rain, 

And lightning ran along the troubled main. 

Over their heads the mighty thunders brake. 
Leaping and tumbling down from rock to rock , 

Then burst anew and made the cliffs to quake 
As they were living things and felt the shock ; 

The waiting sea to sob as if in pain. 

And all the midnight vault to ring again. 

A lamp was burning in the mariner's cave. 
But the blue lightning flashes made it dim ; 

And when the mother heard those thunders rave, 
She took her little child to cherish him ; 

She took him in her arms, and on her breast 

Full wearily she courted him to rest. 



72 THE MARINERS CAVE. 

And soothed him long until the storm was spent, 
And the last thunder peal had died away, 

And stars were out in all the firmament. 

Then did he cease to moan, and slumbering lay, 

While in the welcome silence, pure and deep. 

The care-worn parents sweetly fell asleep. 

And in a dream, enwrought with fancies thick. 
The mother thought she heard the rock-doves coo 

(She had forgotten that her child was sick), 
And she went forth their morning meal to strew ; 

Then over all the cliff with earnest care 

She sought her child, and lo, he was not there ! 

But she was not afraid, though long she sought 
And climbed the cliff, and set her feet in grass, 

Then reached a river, broad and full, she thought. 
And at its brink he sat. Alas ! alas ! 

For one stood near him, fair and undefiled. 

An innocent, a marvellous man-child. 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. "Jt^ 

In garments white as wool, and O, most fair, 
A rainbow covered him with mystic light; 

Upon the warmed grass his feet were bare, 
And as he breathed, the rainbow in her sight 

In passions of clear crimson trembling lay, 

With gold and violet mist made fair the day. 

Her little life ! she thought, his little hands 
Were full of flowers that he did play withal ; 

But when he saw the boy o' the golden lands. 
And looked him in the face, he let them fall, 

Held through a rapturous pause in wistful wise 

To the sweet strangeness of those keen child-eyes, 

"Ah, dear and awful God, who chastenest me. 

How shall my soul to this be reconciled. 
It is the Saviour of the world," quoth she, 

"And to mychild He cometh as a child." 
Then on her knees she fell by that vast stream — 
Oh, it was sorrowful, this woman's dream ! 
4 



74 THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

For lo, that Elder Child drew nearer now, 
Fair as the light, and purer than the sun. 

The calms of heaven were brooding on his brow, 
And in his arms He took her little one, 

Her child, that knew her, but with sweet demur 

Drew back, nor held his hands to come to her. 

With that in mother misery sore she wept — 
*' O Lamb of God, I love my child so much ! 

He stole away to Thee while we two slept. 
But give him back, for Thou hast many such ; 

And as for me I have but one. O deign. 

Dear Pity of God, to give him me again." 

His feet were on the river. Oh, his feet 

Had touched the river now, and it was great; 

And yet He hearkened when she did entreat. 
And turned in quietness as He would wait — 

Wait till she looked upon Him, and behold. 

There lay a long way off a city of gold. 



TUE MARINERS CAVE. 75 

Like to a jasper and a sardine stone, 

Whelmed in the rainbow stood that fair man-cliild, 
Mighty and innocent, that held her own, 

And as might be his manner at home he smiled , 
Then while she looked and looked, the vision brake, 
And all amazed she started up awake. 

And lo, her little child was gone indeed ! 

The sleep that knows no waking he had slept. 
Folded to heaven's own heart; in rainbow brede 

Clothed and made glad, while they two mourned and 
wept, 
But in the drinking of their bitter cup 
The sweet voice spoke once more, and sighed, " Look up !" 

They heard, and straightway answered, " Even so : 
For what abides that we should look on here? 

The heavens are better than this earth below. 
They are of more account and far more dear. 

We will look up, for all most sweet and fair, 

Most pure, most excellent, is garnered there." 



76 



w 



A REVERIE. 

HEN I do sit apart 

And commune with my heart, 
She biings me forth the treasures once my own ; 
Shows me a happy place 
Where leaf-buds swelled apace, 
And wasting rims of snow in sunlight shone. 

Rock, in a mossy glade. 

The larch-trees lend thee shade, 

That just begin to feather with their leaves ; 
From out thy crevice deep 
White tufts of snowdrops peep, 

And melted rime drips softly from thine eaves. 



A REVERIE. 77 

Ah, rock, I know, I know 

That yet thy snowdrops grow, 
And yet doth sunshine fleck them through the tree, 

Whose sheltering branches hide 

The cottage at its side, 
That nevermore will shade or shelter me. 

I know the stockdoves' note 

Athwart the glen doth float : 
With sweet foreknowledge of her twins oppressed, 

And longings onward sent. 

She broods before the event, 
While leisurely she mends her shallow nest. 

Once to that cottage door. 

In happy days of yore, 
My little love made footprints in the snow. 

She was so glad of spring. 

She helped the birds to sing, 
1 know she dwells there yet — the rest I do not know. 



78 A REVERIE. 

They sang, and would not stop, 
While drop, and drop, and drop, 

J heard the melted rime in sunshine fall ; 
And narrow wandering rills, 
Where leaned the daffodils, 

Murmured and murmured on, and that was all. 

I think, but cannot tell, 

I think she loved me well. 
And some dear fancy with my future twined. 

But I shall never know, 

Hope faints, and lets it go. 
That passionate want forbid to speak its mind. 



79 



DEFTON WOOD. 

I HELD my way through Defton Wood, 

And on to Wandor Hall ; 
The dancing leaf let down the light, 

In hovering spots to fall. 
" O young, young leaves, you match me well," 

My heart was merry, and sung — 
** Now wish me joy of my sweet youth ; 
My love — she, too, is young 1 
O so many, many, many 

Little homes above my head I 
O so many, many, many 

Dancing Wossoms round me spread I 
O so many, many, many 

Maidens sighing yet for none I 
Speed, ye wooers, speed with any ^ 
Speed with all but one." 



8o DEFT ON WOOD. 

I took my leave of Wandor Hall, 

And trod the woodland ways. 
"What shall I do so long to bear 

The burden of my days ? " 
I sighed my heart into the boughs 

Whereby the culvers cooed ; 
For only I between them went 
Unwooing and unwooed. 
" O so many, many, many 

Lilies bending stately heads I 
O so many, many, many 

Strawberries ripened on their beds I 
O so many, many, many 

Maids, and yet my heart undone I 
What to me are all, are any — 
I have lost my — ofte." 



8i 



THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT (IN LICHFIELD 
CATHEDRAL). 

Marvels of sleep, grown cold ! 

Who hath not longed to fold 
With pitying ruth, forgetful of their bliss, 

Those cherub forms that lie. 

With none to watch them nigh. 
Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss ? 

What ! they are left alone 

All night with graven stone, 
Pillars and arches that above them meet ; 

While through those windows high 

The journeying stars can spy, 
And dim blue moonbeams drop on their uncovered feet? 
4* 



82 THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT, 

O cold ! yet look again, 

There is a wandering vein 
Traced in the hand where those white snowdrops lie. 

Let her rapt dreamy smile 

The wondering heart beguile, 
That almost thinks to hear a calm contented sigh. 

• What silence dwells between 

Those severed lips serene ! 
The rapture of sweet waiting breathes and grows. 

What trance-like peace is shed 

On her reclining head, 
And e*en on listless feet what languor of repose ! 

Angels of joy and love 

Lean softly from above 
And whisper to her sweet and marvellous things ; 

Tell of the golden gate 

That opened wide doth wait, 
Anil shadow her dim sleep with their celestial wings. 



THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT. 83 

Hearing of that blest shore 

She thinks on earth no more, 
Contented to forego this wintry land. 

She has nor thought nor care 

But to rest calmly there, 
And hold the snowdrops pale that blossom in her 1: and. 

But on the other face 

Broodeth a mournful grace, 
Tlxis had foreboding thoughts beyond her years. 

While sinking thus to sleep 

She saw her mother weep, 
And could not lift her hand to dry those heart-sick tears. 

Could not — but failing lay, 

Sighed her young life away. 
And let her arm drop down in listless rest. 

Too weaiy on that bed 

To turn her dying head, 
Or fold the littlo sister nearer to her breast. 



54 THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT 

Yet this is faintly told 

On features fair and cold, 
A look of calm surprise, of meek regret, 

As if with life oppressed 

She turned her to her rest, 
But felt her mother's love and looked not to forget. 

How wistfully they close, 

Sweet eyes, to their repose ! 
How quietly declines the placid brow I 

The young lips seem to say, 

" I have wept much to-day. 
And felt some bitter pains, but they are over now.*' 

Sleep ! there are left below 

Many who pine to go. 
Many who lay it to their chastened souls. 

That gloomy days draw nigh, 

And they are blest who die. 
For this green world grows worse the longer that she 
rolls. 



THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT. 85 

And as for me I know 

A little of her woe, 
Her yearning want doth in my soul abide. 

And sighs of them that weep, 

" O put us soon to sleep, 
For when we wake — with Thee — we shall be satisfied." 



86 



AN ANCIENT CHESS KING. 

T TAPLY some Rajah first in the ages gone 
Amid his languid ladies fingered thee, 

While a black nightingale, sun-swart as he, 
Sang his one wife, love's passionate oraison ; 
Haply thou may'st have pleased Old Prester John 

Among his pastures, when full royally 

He sat in tent, grave shepherds at his knee. 
While lamps of balsam winked and glimmered on. 
What doest thou here ? Thy masters are all dead ; 

My heart is full of ruth and yearning pain 
At sight of thee ; O king that hast a crown 

Outlasting theirs, and tell'st of greatness fled 
Through cloud-hung nights of unabated rain 
And murmuis of the dark majestic town. 



87 



COMFORT IN THE NIGHT. 

She thought by heaven's high wall that she did stray 

Till she beheld the everlasting gate : 

And she climbed up to it to long, and wait, 
Feel with her hands (for it was night), and lay 
Her lips to it with kisses ; thus to pray 

That it might open to her desolate. 

And lo ! it trembled, lo ! her passionate 
Ciying prevailed. A little little way 
It opened : there fell out a thread of light, 

And she saw winged wonders move within ; 
Also she heard sweet talking as they meant 
To comfort her. They said, " Who comes to-night 

Shall one day certainly an entrance win ; " 
Then the gate closed and she awoke content. 



Sb 



THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS. 

Though all great deeds were proved but fables fine, 
Though earth's old story could be told anew, 
Though the sweet fashions loved of them that sue 
Were empty as the ruined Delphian shrine — 
Though God did never man, in words benign, 
With sense of His great Fatherhood endue. 
Though life immortal were a dream untrue, 
And He that promised it were not divine — 
Though soul, though spirit were not, and all hope 

Reaching beyond the bourne, melted away ; 
Though virtue had no goal and good no scope. 

But both were doomed to end with this our clay — 
Though all these were not, — to the ungraced heir 
Would this remain, — to live, as though they were. 



89 



THE LONG WHITE SE/iM. 

A S I came round the harbor buoy, 
The lights began to gleam, 
No wave the land-locked water stirred. 

The crags were white as cream ; 
And I marked my love by candle-light 
Sewing her long white seam. 
It's aye sewing ashore, my dear. 

Watch and steer at sea, 
It's reef and furl, and haul the line, 
Set sail and think of thee. 

I climbed to reach her cottage door ; 

O sweetly my love sings 1 
Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, 

My soul to meet it springs 
As the shining water leaped of old, 

When stirred by angel wings. 



90 THE LONG WHITE SEAM. 

Aye longing to list anew, 
Awake and in my dream, 

But never a song she sang like this, 
Sewing her long white seam. 

Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, 

That brought me in to thee. 
And peace drop down on that low roof 

For the sight that I did see. 
And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear 
All for the love of me. 

For O, for O, with brows bent low 
By the candle's flickering gleam, 
Her wedding gown it was she wrought, 
Sewing the long white seam. 



91 



AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. 

A ND what. will ye hear, my daughters dear? — 
Oh, what will ye hear this night? 
Shall I sing you a song of the yuletide cheer, 
Or of lovers and ladies bright? 

*' Thou shalt sing," they say (for we dwell far away 
From the land where fain would we be), 

" Thou shalt sing us again some old-world strain 
That is sung in our own countrie. 

*' Thou shalt mind us so of the times long ago, 

When we walked on the upland lea. 
While the old harbor light waxed faint in the white, 

Long rays shooting out from the sea ; 



92 AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. 

** While lambs were yet asleep, and the dew lay deep 
On the grass, and their fleeces clean and fair. 

Never grass was seen so thick nor so green 
As the grass that grew up there I 

*' In the town was no smoke, for none there awoke — 
At our feet it lay still as still could be ; 

And we saw far below the long river flow, 
And the schooners a-warping out to sea. 

*' Sing us now a strain shall make us feel again 
As we felt in that sacred peace of morn. 

When we had the first view of the wet sparkling dew, 
In the shyness of a day just born." 

So I sang an old song — it was plain and not long — 
I had sung it very oft when they were small ; 

And long ere it was done they wept every one : 
Yet this was all the song — this was all : — 



AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. 93 

The snow lies white, and the moon gives light, 

I'll out to the freezing mere, 
And ease my heart with one little song, 

For none will be nigh to hear. 

And it's O my love, my love ! 

And it's O my dear, my dear ! 
It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, 

When nobody's nigh to hear. 

My love is young, she is young, is young ; 

When she laughs the dimple dips. 
We walked in the wind, and her long locks blew 

Till sweetly they touched my lips. 

And I'll out to the freezing mere, 

Where the stiff reeds whistle so low, 
And I'll tell my mind to the friendly wind, 

Because I have loved her so. 

Ay, and she's true, my lady is true ! 
And that's the best of it all ; 



94 AN OLD WIFE'S SONQ. 

And when she blushes my heart so yearns 

That tears are ready to fall. 

And it's O my love, my love ! 

And it's O my dear, my dear ! 
It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, 

When nobody's nigh to hear. 



95 



COLD AND QUIET. 

/''^OLD, my dear, — cold and quiet. 

In their cups on yonder lea, 
Cowslips fold the brown bee*s diet ; 
So the moss enfoldeth thee. 
" Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower — 
Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree ; 
And when our children sleep," she sighed, " at the dusk 
hour, 
And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me ! '* 

Lost, my dear ? Lost ! nay, deepest 

Love is that which loseth least ; 
Through the night-time while thou sleepest, 

Still I watch the shrouded east. 



9^ COLD AND QUIET, 

Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth, 
" Lost " is no word for such a love as mine ; 
Love from her past to me a present giveth, 

And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine. 
Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth 
That which was, and not in vain 
Sacred have I kept, God knoweth, 
Love*s last words atween us twain. 
•' Hold by our past, my only love, my lover ; 
Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me ! " 
Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over 
Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee. 



97 



A SNOW MOUNTAIN 

/ "*AN I make white enough my thought for thee, 

Or wash my words in light? Thou hast no mate 
To sit aloft in the silence silently 

And twin those matchless heights undesecrate. 
Reverend as Lear, when, lorn of shelter, he 

Stood, with his old white head, surprised at fate ; 
Alone as Galileo, when, set free. 

Before the stars he mused disconsolate. 
Ay, and remote, as the dead lords of song. 

Great masters who have made us what we are, 
For thou and they have taught us how to long 

And feel a sacred want of the fair and far : 
Reign, and keep life in this our deep desire — 
Our only greatness is that we aspire. 

5 



08 



SLEEP. 
(a woman speaks.) 

O SLEEP, we are beholden to thee, sleep, 

Thou bearest angels to us in the night, 

Saints out of heaven with palms. Seen by thy light 
Sorrow is some old tale that goeth not deep ; 
Love is a pouting child. Once I did sweep 

Through space with thee, and lo, a dazzling sight — 

Stars ! They came on, I felt their drawing and might ; 
And some had dark companions. Once (I weep 
When I remember that) we sailed the tide. 
And found fair isles, where no isles used to bide. 

And met there my lost love, who said to me. 
That ^twas a long mistake : he had not died. 

Sleep, in the world to come how strange 'twill be 

Ne^er to want, never to wish for thee I 



99 



PROMISING. 

(a man speaks.) 

Once, a new world, the sunswart marinere, 

Columbus, promised, and was sore withstood, 
Ungraced, unhelped, unheard for many a year ; 

But let at last to make his promise good. 
Promised and promising I go, most dear, 

To better my dull heart with love's sweet feud, 
My life with its most reverent hope and fear, 

And my religion, with fair gratitude. 
O we must part ; the stars for me contend, 

And all the winds that blow on all the seas. 
Through wonderful waste places I must wend, 

And with a promise my sad soul appease. 
Promise then, promise much of far-off bliss ; 
But — ah, for present joy, give me one kiss. 



lOO 



LOVE. 

Who veileth love should first have vanquished fate. 

She folded up the dream in her deep heart. 

Her fair full lips v^^ere silent on that smart, 
Thick fringed eyes did on the grasses wait. 
What good? one eloquent blush, but one, and straight 

The meaning of a life w^as known ; for art 

Is often foiled in playing nature's part, 
And time holds nothing long inviolate. 
Earth's buried seed springs up — slowly, or fast : 
The ring came home, that one in ages past 

Flung to the keeping of unfathomed seas : 

And golden apples on the mystic trees 
Were sought and found, and borne away at last, 

Though watched of the divine Hesperides. 



lOI 



POEMS 

Written on the Deaths of Three Lovely Chil- 
dren WHO were taken from their Parents 
within a Month of one another. 



HENRY, 

AGED EIGHT YEARS. 



"\/'ELLOW leaves, how fast they flutter — woodland 
hollows thickly strewing, 
Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid- 
day win, 
While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddeie(^ 
hues imbuing 

All without and all within ! 



I02 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN, 

All within ! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round 
their dwelling 
Did not load your father's spirit with those deep and 
burdened sighs ; — 
Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your mother's bosom 
swelling, 

Fast as tears that dim her eyes. 

Life is fraught with many changes, checked with sorrow 
and mutation. 
But no grief it ever lightened such a truth before to 
know : — 
1 behold them — father, mother — as they seemed to 
contemplation, 

Only three short weeks ago ! 

Saddened for the morrow's parting — up the stairs at 
midnight stealing — • 

As with cautious foot we glided past the children's 
open door, — 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. IO3 

" Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled foriis 
at last revealing, 

" Kiss them in their sleep once more." 

You were sleeping, little Henry, with your eyelids 
scarcely closing. 
Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded 
arms entwined : — 
And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in their 
reposing 

By the movements of the mind ! 

And your mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleeping 
treasures numbered. 
Whispering fondly — "He is dreaming'' — as yDU 
turned upon your bed — 
And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, as 
you slumbered. 

With his hand upon your head ! 



I04 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN, 

Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing f 
No ! he never 
Heard afar the summons uttered — " Come up hither" 
— Never knew 
How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy for 
ever, 

And for ever in their view. 

Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were by 
us, 
Shrouding wings — majestic beings — hidden by this 
earthly veil — 
Such as we have called on, saying, " Praise the Lord, 
O Ananias, 

Azarias and Misael ! " 

But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the missioned 
Spirits taught him. 
To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left him 
to their will ? 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. I05 

While he slumbered, who can answer for what dreams 
tliey may have brought him, 

When at midnight all was still ? 

Father ! Mother ! must you leave him on his bed, but not 
to slumber? . 
Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, but 
not to pray ? 
When you count your children over, must you tell a 
different number, 

Since that happier yesterday ? 

Father ! Mother ! weep if need be, since this is a " time" 
for weeping. 
Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never argued 
down — 
Coldly sounds the admonition, "Why lament? in better 
keeping 

Rests the child than in your own." 



5* 



o6 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 

" Truth indeed ! but, oh ! compassion ! Have you sought 

to scan my sorrow ? " 
(Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that 

common tale) 

" Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling 

borrow 

Even a tone that might avail ? 

" Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart- warm 
affection ? 
Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond 
words to combine? 
Surely no ! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection 
Of the care that burdens mine ! " 

When the winter twilight gathers. Father, and your 

thoughts shall wander, 
Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless 

reveries, 

Hali forgetful what division holds the form whereon you 

ponder 

From its place upon your knees — 



ON TEE DEATHS OF TEHEE CEILDREN. I07 

With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful 

wonder, 
Of itself the heart shall question, " Art Thou then no 
longer here ? 
Is it so, my little Henry ? Are we set so far asunder 
Who were wont to be so near?" 

While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened 
shades are meeting, 
To itself the heart shall answer, " He shall come to 
me no more : 
I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child's sweet 
voice entreating 

For admission at my door." 

But upon your fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs 
are dwelling, 
Neitlier sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful features 
know; 
Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their sad 
hearts to be telling, 

" Daylight breaketh, let me go I** 



Io8 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 

Dayllgiit breaketh, little Henry ; in its beams your soul 
awaketh — 
What though night should close around us, dim and 
dreary to the view — 
Though our souls should walk in darkness, far away that 
morning breaketh 

Into endless day for you ! 



SAMUEL, 



AGED NINE YEARS. 



They have left you, little Henry, but they have not left 
you lonely — 
Brothers' hearts so knit together could not, might not 
separate dwell. 
Fain to seek you in the mansions far away — One lin- 
gered only 

To bid those behind farewell 1 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. IO9 

Gentle Boy! — His childlike nature in most guileless 
form was moulded, 
And it may be that his spirit woke in glory unaware, 
Since so calmly he resigned it, with his hands still 
meekly folded, 

Having said his evening prayer. 

Or — if conscious of that summons — "Speak, O Lord, 
Thy servant heareth " — 
As one said, whose name they gave him, might his 
willing answer be, 
" Here am I " — like him replying — " At Thy gates my 
soul appeareth, 

For behold Thou calledst me ! " 

A deep silence — utter silence, on his earthly home de 
scendeth : — 
Reading, playing, sleeping, waking — he is gone, and 
few remain ! 
" O the loss ! " — they utter, weeping — every voice its 
echo lendeth — 

" O the loss ! " — But, O the gain ! 



no ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 

On that tranquil shore his spirit was vouchsafed an early 
landing, 
Lest the toils of crime should stain it, or the thrall of 
guilt control — 
Lest that " wickedness should alter the yet simple under- 
standing, 

Or deceit beguile his soul ! " 

''Lay not up on earth thy treasure" — they have read 
that sentence duly, 
Moth and rust shall fret thy riches — earthly good hath 
swift decay — 
'' Even so," each l\eart replieth — " As for me, my riches 
truly 

Make them wings and flee away ! '* 

•' O my riches ! — O my children ! — dearest part of life 
and being. 
Treasures looked to for the solace of this life's declining 
years, — 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. Ill 

Were our voices cold to hearing — or our faces cold to 
seeing, 

That ye left us to our tears ? " 

"We inherit conscious silence, ceasing of some merry 
laughter, 
And the hush of two sweet voices — (healing sounds 
for spirits bruised !) 
Of the tread of Joyous footsteps in the pathway following 
after, 

Of two names no longer used ! " 

Qiiestion for them, little Sister, in your feweet and child- 
ish fashion — 
Search and seek them, Baby Brother, with your calm 
and asking eyes — 
Dimpled lips that fail to utter fond appeal or sad com* 
passion, 

Mild regret or dim surprise ! 



112 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 

There are two tall trees above you, by the high east 
window growing, 
Underneath them, slumber sweetly, lapt in silence 
deep, serene ; 
Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes towards 
you flowing 

Echo — with a pause between ! 

And that pause? — a voice shall fill it — tones that 
blessed you daily, nightly. 
Well beloved, but not sufficing. Sleepers, to awake 
you now, 
Though so near he stand, that shadows fi-om your trees 
may tremble lightly 

On his book and on his brow ! 

Sleep then ever ! Neither singing of sweet birds shall 
break your slumber. 
Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leives, nor 
drift of snow, 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. H^ 

Charm those dropt Hds more to open, nor the tranquil 
bosoms cumber 

With one care for things below ! 

It is something, the assurance, that you ne'er shall feel 
like sorrow, 
Weep no past and dread no future — know not sighing, 
feel not pain — 
Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuller to- 
morrow — 

" Clouds returning after rain ! " 

No, far off, the daylight breaketh, in its beams each soul 
awaketh : 
" What though clouds," they sigh, " be gathered dark 
* and stormy to the view, 

Though the light our eyes forsaketh, fresh and sweet 
behold it breaketli 

Into endless day for you ! " 



114 ON TEE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 



KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. 
(asleep in the daytime.) 

All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden light the 
meadow steepeth, 
And the last October roses daily wax more pale and 
fair ; 
They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of one 
who sleepeth 

With a sunbeam on her hair. 

Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as one 
that dreameth, 
And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that 
may not speak ; 
Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory 
gleameth 

On the sainted brow and cheek. 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. I15 

There is silence ! They who watch her, speak no word 
of grief or wailing, 
In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and can- 
not cease. 
Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink 
back, and hope be failing. 

They, like Aaron, " hold their peace." 

While they gaze on her, the deep bell with its long slow 
pauses soundeth ; 
Long they hearken — father — mother — love has noth- 
ing more to say : 
Beating time to feet of Angels leading her where love 
aboundeth 

Tolls the heavy bell this day. 

Still in silence to its tolling they count over all her 
meetness 
To lie near their hearts and soothe them in all sorrows 
and all fears ; 



il6 ON THE DEATHS 0^ THREE CHILDREN. 

Her short life lies spread before them, but they cannot tell 
her sweetness, 

Easily as tell her years. 

Only daughter — Ah! how fondly Thought around that 
lost name lingers, 
Oft when lone your mother sitteth, she shall weep and 
droop her head, 
She shall mourn her baby-sempstress, with those imita- 
tive fingers, 

Drawing out her aimless thread. 

In your father's Future cometh many a sad uncheered 
to-morrow. 
But in sleep shall three fair faces heavenly-calm to- 
wards him lean — 
Like* a threefold cord shall draw him through the weari- 
ness of sorrow. 

Nearer to the things unseen. 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. II7 

With the closing of your eyelids close the dreams of 
expectation^ 
And so ends the fairest chapter in the records of their 
way: 
Therefore — O thou God most holy — God of rest and 
consolation, 

Be Thou near to them this day ! 

Be Thou near, when they shall nightly, by the bed of 
infant brothers, 
Hear their soft and gentle breathing, and shall bless 
them on their knees ; 
And shall think how coldly falleth the white moonlight 
on the others, 

In their bed beneath the trees. 

Be Thou near, when they, they only^ bear those faces in 
remembrance, 
And the number o^ their children strangers ask them 
with a smile ; 



Il8 ON TEE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN, 

And when other childlike faces touch them by the strong 
resemblance « 

To those turned to them erewhile. 

Be Thou near, each chastened Spirit for its course and 
conflict nerving, 
Let Thy voice say, " Father — mother — lo ! thy treas- 
ures live above ! 
Now be strong, be strong, no longer cumbered over 
much with serving 

At the shrine of human love." 

Let them sleep ! In course of ages e*en the Holy House 
shall crumble, 
And the broad and stately steeple one day bend to its 
decline, 
And high arches, ancient arches bowed and decked 
in clothing humble, 

Creeping moss shall round them twine. 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. II9 

Ancient arches, old and hoary, sunny beams shall glim- 
mer through them. 
And invest them with a beauty we would fain thev 
should not share. 
And the moonlight slanting down them, the white moon- 
light shall imbue them 

With a sadness dim and fair. 

Then the soft green moss shall wrap you, and the world 

shall all forget you. 
Life, and stir, and toil, and tumult unawares shall pass 

you by ; 
Generations come and vanish : but it shall not grieve nor 

fret you. 

That they sin, or that they sigh. 

And the world, grown old in sinning, shall deny her first 
beginning, 
And think scorn of words which whisper how that all 
must pass away ; 



I20 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN, 

Time's arrest and intermission shall account a vain tra 
dition, 

And a dream, the reckoning day ! 

Till His blast, a blast of terror, shall awake in shame 
and sadness 
Faithless millions to a vision of the failing earth and 
skies, 
And more sweet than song of Angels, in their shout of 
joy and gladness. 

Call the dead in Christ to rise ! 

Then, by One Man's intercession, standing clear from 
their transgression. 
Father — mother — you shall meet them fairer than 
they were before, 
And have joy with the Redeemed, joy ear hath not 
heard — heart dreamed, 

Ay for ever — evermore I 



121 



THE TWO MARGARETS, 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 

T YING imbedded in the green champaigne 

That gives no shadow to thy silvery face, 
Open to all the heavens, and all their train, 

The marshalled clouds that cross with stately pace. 
No steadfast hills on thee reflected rest, 
Nor waver with the dimpling of thy breast. 

O, silent Mere ! about whose marges spring 
Thick bulrushes to hide the reed-bird's nest ; 

Where the shy ousel dips her glossy wing, 
And balanced in the water takes her rest : 

While under bending leaves, all gem-arra3'ed, 

Blue dragon-flies sit panting in the shade : 
6 



122 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Warm, stilly place, the sundew loves thee well, 
And the green sward comes creeping to thy brink, 

And golden saxifrage and pimpernel 

Lean down to thee their perfumed heads to drink ; 

And heavy with the weight of bees doth bend 

White clover, and beneath thy wave descend : 

While the sweet scent of bean-fields, floated wide 

On a long eddy of the lightsome air 
Over the level mead to thy lone side. 

Doth lose itself among thy zephyrs rare. 
With wafts from hawthorn bowers and new-cut hay, 
And blooming orchards lying far away. 

Thou hast thy Sabbaths, when a deeper calm 
Descends upon thee, quiet Mere, and then 

There is a sound of bells, a far-off psalm 

From gray church towers, that swims across the fen ; 

And the light sigh where grass and waters meet, 

Is thy meek welcome to the visit sweet. 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. I 

Thou hast thy lovers. Though the angler's rod 
Dimple thy surface seldom ; though the oar 

Fill not with silvery globes thy fringing sod, 
Nor send long ripples to thy lonely shore ; 

Though few, as in a glass, have cared to trace 

The smile of nature moving on thy face ; 

Thou hast thy lovers truly. 'Mid the cold 

Of northern tarns the wild-fowl dream of thee, 

And, keeping thee in mind, their wings unfold, 
And shape their course, high soaring, till they see 

Down in the world, like molten silver, rest 

Their goal, and screaming plunge them in thy breast. 

Fair Margaret, who sittest all day long 
On the gray stone beneath the sycamore, 

The bowering tree with branches lithe and strong, 
The only one to grace the level shore. 

Why dost thou wait ? for whom with patient cheer 

Gaze yet so wistfully adown the Mere ? 



124 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Thou canst not tell, thou dost not know, alas ! 

Long watchlngs leave behind them little trace ; 
And yet how sweetly must the mornings pass. 

That bring that dreamy calmness to thy face ! 
How quickly must the evenings come that find 
Thee still regret to leave the Mere behind ! 

Thy cheek is resting on thy hand ; thine eyes 
Are like twin violets but half unclosed, 

And quiet as the deeps in yonder skies. 
Never more peacefully in love reposed 

A mother's gaze upon her offspring dear, 

Than thine upon the long far-stretching Mere. 

Sweet innocent ! Thy yellow hair floats low 
In rippling undulations on thy breast. 

Then stealing down the parted love-locks flow, 
Bathed in a sunbeam on thy knees to rest, 

And touch those idle hands that folded lie, 

Ha\ ing from sport and toil a like immunity. 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 1 25 

Through thy life*s dream with what a touching grace 
Childhood attends thee, nearly woman grown ; 

Her dimples linger yet upon thy face, 
Like dews uj^on a lily this day blown ; 

Thy sighs are born of peace, unruffled, deep ; 

So the babe sighs on mother's breast asleep. 

It sighs, and wakes, — but thou ! thy dream is all, 
And thou wert born for it, and it for thee ; 

Morn doth not take thy heart, nor evenfall 
Charm out its sorrowful fidelity, 

Nor noon beguile thee from the pastoral shore, 

And thy long watch beneath the sycamore. 

No, down the Mere as far as eye can see, 
Where its long reaches fade into the sky, 

Thy constant gaze, fair child, rests lovingly ; 
But neither thou nor any can descry 

Aught but the grassy banks, the rustling sedge, 

And flocks of wild-fowl splashing at their edge. 



126 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

And yet 'tis not with expectation hushed 

That thy mute rosy mouth doth pouting close ; 

No fluttering hope to thy young heart e'er rushed, 
Nor disappointment troubled its repose ; 

All satisfied with gazing evermore 

Along the sunny Mere and reedy shore. 

The brooding wren flies pertly near thy seat, 

Thou wilt not move to mark her glancing wing ; 

The timid sheep browse close before thy feet, 
And heedless at thy side do thrushes sing. 

So long amongst them thou hast spent thy days, 

They know that harmless hand thou wilt not raise. 

Thou wilt not lift it up — not e'en to take 
The foxglove bells that flourish in the shade, 

And put them in thy bosom ; not to make 
A posy of wild hyacinth inlaid 

Like bright mosaic in the mossy grass. 

With freckled orchis and pale sassafras. 



MARGARET BT THE MERE SIDE. 1 27 

Gaze on ; — take in the voices of the Mere, 

The break of shallow water at thy feet, 
Its plash among long weeds and grasses sere, 

And its weird sobbing, — hollow music meet 
For ears like thine ; listen and take thy fill. 
And dream on it by night, when all is still. 

Full sixteen years have slowly passed away, 
Young Margaret, since thy fond mother here 

Came down, a six months' wife, one April day, 
To see her husband's boat go down the Mere, 

And track its course, till, lost in distance blue, , , 

In mellow light it faded from her view. 

It faded, and she never saw it more ; — 

Nor any human eye ; — oh, grief! oh, woe ! 

It faded, — and returned not to the shore ; 
But far above it still the waters flow — 

And none beheld it sink, and none could tell 

Where coldly slept the form she loved so well I 



128 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

But that sad day, unknowing of her fate, 

She homeward tiirn'd her still reluctant feet; 

And at her wheel she spun, till dark and late, 

The evening fell ; — the time when they should meet 

Till the stars joaled that at deep midnight burned — 

And morning dawned, and he was not returned. 

And the bright sun came up — she thought too soon. 

And shed his ruddy light along the Mere ; 
And day wore on too quickly, and at noon 

She came and wept beside' the waters clear. 
*' How could he be so late ? " — and then hope fled ; 
And disappointment darkened into dread. 

He NEVER came, and she with weepings sore 
Peered in the water-flags unceasingly ; 

Through all the undulations of the shore. 

Looking for that which most she feared to see. 

And then she took home sorrow to her heart, 

And brooded over its cold cruel smart. 



MABGARET BY TEE MERE SIDE. I2C 

A!id after, desolate she sat alone 

And mourned, refusing to be comforted. 
On the gray stone, the moss-embroidered stone, 

With the great sycamore above her head ; 
Till after many days a broken oar 
Hard by her seat was drifted to the shore 

It came, — a token of his fate, — the whole, 

The sum of her misfortune to reveal ; 
As if sent up in pity to her soul. 

The tidings of her widowhood to seal ; 
And put away the pining hope forlorn. 
That made her grief more bitter to be borne. 

And she was patient ; through the weary day 

She toiled ; though none was there her work to bless, 

And did not wear the sullen months away, 
Nor call on death to end her wretchedness, 

But lest the grief should overflow her breast, 

She toiled as heretofore, and would not rest. 
6* 



130 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

But, her work done, what time the evening star 
Rose over the cool water, then she came . 

To the gray stone, and saw its light irom far 

Drop down the misty Mere white lengths of flame, 

And wondered whether there might be the place 

Where the soft ripple wandered o'er his face. 

Unfortunate ! In solitude forlorn 

She dwelt, and thought upon her husband's grave, 
Till when the days grew short a child was born 

To the dead father underneath the wave ; 
And it brought back a remnant of delight, 
A little sunshine to its mother's sight ; 

A little wonder to her heart grown numb, 
And a sweet yearning pitiful and keen : 

She took it as from that poor father come, 
Her and the misery to stand between ; 

Her little maiden babe, who day by day 

Sucked at her breast and charmed her woes away. 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 13 ^ 

But years flew on ; the child was still the same, 
Xor human language she had learned to speak ; 

Her lips were mute, and seasons went and came, 
And brought fresh beauty to her tender cheek ; 

And all the day upon the sunny shore 

Slie sat and mused beneath the sycamore. 

Strange sympathy ! she watched and wearied not, 
Haply unconscious what it was she sought ; 

Her mother's tale she easily forgot. 

And if she listened no warm tears it brought ; 

Though surely in the yearnings of her heart 

The unknown voyager must have had his part. 

Unknown to her ; like all she saw unknown, 
All sights were fresh as when they first began, 

All sounds w^ere new ; each murmur and each tone 
And cause and consequence she could not scan, 

Forgot that night brought darkness in its train, 

Noi reasoned that the day would come again. 



132 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

There is a happiness in past regret ; 

And echoes of the harshest sound are sweet. 
The mother's soul was struck with grief, and yet, 

Repeated in her child, 'twas not unmeet 
That echo-like the grief a tone should take 
Painless, but ever pensive for her sake. 

For her dear sake, whose patient soul was linked 
By ties so many to the babe unborn ; 

Whose hope, by slow degrees become extinct, 
For evermore had left her child forlorn, 

Yet left no consciousness of want or woe, 

Nor wonder vague that these things should be so. 

Truly her joys were limited and few, 

But they sufficed a life to satisfy. 
That neither fret nor dim foreboding knew. 

But breathed the air in a great harmony 
With its own place and part, and was at one 
With all It knew of earth and moon and sun. 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 1 33 

For all of them were worked into the dream, 
- The husky sighs of wheat-fields in it wrought ; 
All the land-miles belonged to it ; the stream 

That fed the Mere ran through it like a thought. 
It was a passion of peace, and loved to wait 
'Neath boughs with fair green light illuminate. 

To wait with her alone ; always alone : 

For any that drew near she heeded not, 
Wanting them little as the lily grown 

Apart from others in a shady plot. 
Wants fellow-lilies of like fair degree, 
In her still glen to bear her company. 

Always alone : and yet, there was a child 

Who loved this child, and, from his turret towers, 

Across the lea would roam to where, inisled 

And fenced in rapturous silence, went her hours, 

And, with slow footsteps drawn anear the place 

Where mute she sat, would ponder on her face, 



134 ^^^ ^^^ MARGARETS. 

And wonder at her with a childish awe, 

And come again to look, and yet again. 
Till the sweet rippling of the Mere would draw 

His longing to itself; while in her train 
The water-hen, come forth, would bring her brood 
From slumbering in the rushy solitude ; 

Or to their young would curlews call and clang 

Their homeless young that down the furrows creep ; 

Or the wind-hover in the blue would hang. 
Still as a rock set in the watery deep. 

Then from her presence he would break away, 

Unmarked,' ungreeted yet, from day to day. 

But older grown, the Mere he haunted yet. 

And a strange joy from its sweet wildness caught ; 

Whilst careless sat alone maid Margaret, 

And " shut the gates " of silence on her thought. 

All through spring mornings gemmed with melted rime, 

All through hay-harvest and through gleaning time. 



M AEG ABET BY THE MERE SIDE. 135 

O pleasure for itself that boyhood makes, 

-O happiness to roam the sighing shore, 
Plough up with elfin craft the water-flakes, 

And track the nested rail with cautious oar ; 
Then floating lie and look with wonder new 
Straight up in the great dome of light and blue. 

O pleasure ! yet they took him from the wold, 
The reedy Mere, and all his pastime there. 

The place where he was born, and would grow old 
If God his life so many years should spare ; 

From the loved haunts of childhood and the plain 

And pasture-lands of his own broad domain. 

And he came down when wheat was in the sheaf. 
And with her fruit the apple-branch bent low, 

While yet in August glory hung the leaf. 
And flowerless aftermath began to grow ; 

He came from his gray turrets to the shore. 

And sought the maid beneath the sycamore. 



136 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

He sought her, not because her tender eyes 
Would brighten at his coming, for he knew 

Full seldom any thought of him would rise 

In her fair breast when he had passed from view ; 

Bui for his own love's sake, that unbeguiled 

Drew him in spirit to the silent child. 

For boyhood in its better hour is prone 
To reverence what it hath not understood ; 

And he had thought some heavenly meaning shone 
From her clear eyes, that made their watchings good ; 

While a great peacefulness of shade was shed 

Like oil of consecration on her head. 

A fishing wallet from his shoulder slung, 

With bounding foot he reached the mossy place, 

A little moment gently o'er her hung, 

Put back her hair and looked upon her face. 

Then fain from that deep dream to wake her yet, 

He '* Margaret ! " low murmured, " Margaret ! 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 

*' Look at me once before I leave the land, 

For I am going, — going, Margaret." 
And then she sighed, and, lifting up her hand, 

Laid it along his young fresh cheek, and set 
Upon his face those blue twin-deeps, her eyes. 
And moved it back from her in troubled w^ise. 

Because he came between her and her fate. 

The Mere. She sighed again as one oppressed ; 

The waters, shining clear, with delicate 

Reflections wavered on her blameless breast ; 

And through the branches dropt, like flickerings fair, 

And played upon her hands and on her hair. 

And he, withdrawn a little space to see. 

Murmured in tender ruth that was not pain, 

** Farewell, I go ; but sometimes think of me. 
Maid Margaret ; " and there came by again 

A whispering in the reed-beds and the sway 

Of waters : then he turned and went his way. 



37 



138 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

And wilt thou think on him now he is gone? 

No ; thou wilt gaze : though thy young eyes grow dim, 
And thy soft cheek become all pale and wan, 

Still thou wilt gaze, and spend no thought on him ; 
There is no sweetness in his laugh for thee — 
No beauty in his fresh heart's gayety. 

But wherefore linger in deserted haunts ? 

Why of the past, as if yet present, sing? 
The yellow iris on the margin flaunts, 

With hyacinth the banks are blue in spring, 
And under dappled clouds the lark afloat 
Pours all the April-tide from her sweet throat. 

But Margaret — ah ! thou art there no more, 

And thick dank moss creeps over thy gray stone ; 

Thy path is lost that skirted the low shore, 
With willow-grass and speedwell overgrown ; 

Thine eye has closed for ever, and thine ear 

Drinks in no more the music of the Mere. 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 

The boy shall come — shall come again in spring, 
Well pleased that pastoral solitude to share, 

And some kind offering in his hand will bring 
To cast into thy lap, O maid most fair — 

Some clasping gem about thy neck to rest. 

Or heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast. 

And he shall wonder why thou art not here 
The solitude with " smiles to entertain," 

And gaze along the reaches of the Mere ; 
But he shall never see thy f\ce again ^ 

Shall never see upon the reedy shore 

Maid Margaret beneath her sycamore. 



^9 



[40 



n. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



I" Concerning tliis man (Robert Delacour), little further is known than that 
he served in the king's army, and was wounded in the battle of Marston Moor, 
being then about twenty-seven years of age. After the battle of Nazeby, find- 
ing himself a marked man, he quitted the country, taking with him the child 
whom he had adopted ; and he made many voyages between the different ports 
of the Mediterranean and Levant."] 



"D ESTING within His tent at turn of day, 

A wailing voice his scant}^ sleep beset : 
He started up — it did not flee away — 

'Twas no part of his dream, but still did fret 
And pine into his heart, " Ah me ! ah me ! " 
Broken with heaving sobs right mournfully. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 141 

Then he arose, and, troubled at this thing, 

. All wearily toward the voice he went 
Over the down-trod bracken and the ling. 

Until it brought him to a soldier's tent, 
V/here, with the tears upon her face, he found 
A little maiden weeping on the ground ; 

And backward in the tent an aged crone 

"Upbraided her full harshly more and more, 
But sunk her chiding to an undertone 

When she beheld him standing at the door. 
And calmed her voice, and dropped her lifted hand, 
And answered him with accent soft and bland. 

No, the young child was none of hers, she said, 
But she had found her where the ash lay white 

About a smouldering tent ; her infant head 
All shelterless, she through the dewy night 

Ha 1 slumbered on the field, — ungentle fate 

For a lone child so soft and delicate. 



142 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

" And I," quoth she, " have tended her with care, 
And thought to be rewarded of her kin, 

For by her rich attire and features fair 
I know her birth is gentle : yet within 

The tent unclaimed she doth but pine and weep, 

A burden I would fain no longer keep." 

Still while she spoke the little creature wept, 
Till painful pity touched him for the flow 

Of all those tears, and to his heart there crept 
A yearning as of fotherhood, and lo ! 

Reaching his arms to her, " My sweet," quoth he, 

*' Dear little madam, wilt thou come with me ? " 

Then she left off her crying, and a look 
Of wistful wonder stole into her eyes. 

The sullen frown her dimpled face forsook. 
She let him take her, and forgot her sighs, 

Contented in his alien arms to rest. 

And lay her baby head upon his breast. 



jdARGARET IN TEE XEBEC. 1 43 

Ah, ^ure a stranger trust was never sought 

By any soldier on a battle-plain. 
He brought her to his tent, and soothed his voice. 

Rough with command ; and asked, but all in vain, 
Her story, while her prattling tongue rang sweet, 
She playing, as one at home, about his feet. 

Of race, of country, or of parentage. 

Her lisping accents nothing could unfold ; -^ 

No questioning could win to read the page 
Of her short life ; — she left her tale untold, 

And home and kin thus early to forget, 

She only knew, — her name was — Margaret. 

Then in the dusk upon his arm it chanced 

That night that suddenly she fell asieep ; 
And he looked down on her like one entranced, 

And listened to her breathing still and deep. 
As if a little child, when daylight closed, 
With half-shut lido had ne'er before reposed. 



144 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Softly he laid her down from off his arm, 
With earnest care and new-born tenderness : 

Her infancy, a wonder-working charm. 

Laid hold upon his love ; he stayed to bless 

The small sweet head, then went he forth that night 

And sought a nurse to tend this new delight. 

And day by day his heart she wrought upon, 
And won her way into its inmost fold — 

A heart which, but for lack of that whereon 
To fix itself, would never have been cold ; 

And, opening wide, now let her come to dwell • 

Within its strong unguarded citadel. 

She, like a dream, unlocked the hidden springs 
Of his past thoughts, and set their current free 

To talk with him of half-forgotten things — 
The pureness and the peace of infancy, 

" Thou also, thou," to sigh, " wert undefiled 

(O God, the change !) once, as this little child." 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 1^^ 

The baby-mistress of a soldier's heart, 

She had but friendlessness to stand her friend, 

And her own orphanhood to plead her part. 
When he, a wayfarer, did pause, and bend, 

And bear with him the starry blossom sweet 

Out of its jeopardy from trampling feet. 

A gleam of light upon a rainy day, 

A new-tied knot that must be sever'd soon, 

At sunrise once before his tent at play. 
And hurried from the battle-field at noon. 

While face to face in hostile ranks they stood, 

Who should have dwelt in peace and brotherhood. 

But ere the fight, when higher rose the sun. 
And yet were distant far the rebel bands, 

She heard at intervals a booming gun. 

And she was pleased, and laughing clapped her hands , 

Till he came in with troubled look and tone, 

Who chose her desolate to be his own. 
7 



14^ THE TWO MARGARETS. 

And he said, " Little madam, now farewell, 
For there will be a battle fought ere night. 

God be thy shield, for He alone can tell 

Which way may fall the fortune of the fight. 

To fitter hands the care of thee pertain, 

My dear, if we two never meet again." 

Then he gave money shortly to her nurse, 
And charged her straitly to depart in haste, 

And leave the plain, whereon the deadly curse 
Of war should light with ruin, death, and waste, 

And all the ills that must its presence blight, 

E'en if proud victory should bless the right. 

" But if the rebel cause should prosper, then 
It were not good among the hills to wend ; 

But journey through to Boston in the fen, 

And wait for peace, if peace our God shall send ; 

And if my life is spared, I will essay," 

Quoth he, " to join you there as best I may.** 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. I^T 

So then he kissed the child, and went his way ; 

But nviny troubles rolled above his head ; 
Tlie sun arose on many an evil day, 

And cruel deeds were done, and tears were shed ; 
And hope was lost, and loyal hearts were fain 
In dust to hide, — ere they two met again. 

So passed the little child from thought, from view — 
(The snowdrop blossoms, and then is not there. 

Forgotten till men welcome it anew), 
He found her in his heavy days of care, 

And with her dimples was again beguiled, 

As on her nurse's knee she sat and smiled. 

And he became a voyager by sea. 

And took the child to share his wandering state ; 
Since from his native land compelled to flee, 

And hopeless to avert her monarch's fate ; 
For all was lost that might have made him pause, 
And, past a soldier's help, the royal cause. 



HS the two MARGARETS. 

And thus rolled on long days, long months and years, 
And Margaret withhi the Xebec sailed ; 

The lulling wind made music in her ears, 
And nothing to her life's completeness failed. 

Her pastime 'twas to see the dolphins spring, 

And wonderful live rainbows glimmering. 

The gay sea-plants familiar were to her, 

As daisies to the children of the land ; 
Red wavy dulse the sunburnt mariner 

Raised from its bed to glisten in her hand ; 
The vessel and the sea were her life's stage — 
Her house, her garden, and her hermitage. 

Also she had a cabin of her own. 

For beauty like an elfin palace bright. 
With Venice glass adorned and crystal stone, 

That trembled with a many-colored light ; 
And there with two caged ringdoves she did play, 
And feed them carefully from day to day. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 1 49 

Her bed with silken curtains was enclosed, 
White as the snowy rose of Guelderland ; 

On Turkish pillows her young head reposed, 
And love had gathered with a careful hand 

Fair playthings to the little maiden's side, 

From distant ports, and cities parted wide. 

She had two myrtle-plants that she did tend. 

And think all trees were like to them that grew : 

For things on land she did confuse and blend, 
And chiefly from the deck the land she knew. 

And in her heart she pitied more and more 

The steadfast dwellers on the changeless shore. 

Green fields and inland meadows faded out 
Of mind, or with sea images were linked ; 

And yet she had her childish thoughts about 
The country she had left — though indistinct 

And faint as mist the mountain-head that shrouds, 

Or dim through distance as Magellan's clouds. 



150 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

And when to frame a forest scene she tried, 
The ever-present sea would yet intrude, 

And all her towns were by the water's side, 
It murmured in all moorland solitude, 

Where rocks and the ribbed sand would intervene, 

And waves would edge her fancied village green ; 

Because her heart was like an ocean shell, 

That holds (men say) a message from the deep ; 

And yet the land was strong, she knew its spell. 
And harbor lights could draw her in her sleep ; 

And minster chimes from pierced towers that swim, 

Were the land-angels making God a hymn. 

So she grew on, the idol of one heart. 
And the delight of many — and her face, 

Thus dwelling chiefly from her sex apart, 

Was touched with a most deep and tender grace — 

A look that never aught but nature gave, 

Artless, yet thoughtful ; innocent, yet grave. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 151 

Strange her adornings were, and strangely blent : 
A golden net confined her nut-brown hair ; 

Qiiaint were the robes that divers lands had lent, 
And quaint her aged nurse's skill and care ; 

Yet did they well on the sea-maiden meet, 

Circle her neck, and grace her dimpled feet. 

The sailor folk were glad because of her, 

And deemed good fortune followed in her wake ; 

She was their guardian saint, they did aver — 
Prosperous winds were sent them for her sake ; 

And strange rough vows, strange prayers, they nightly 
made, 

While, storm or calm, she slept, in nought afraid. 

Clear were her eyes, that daughter of the sea, 

Sweet, when uplifted to her aged nurse. 
She sat, and communed what the world could be ; 

And rambling stories caused her to rehearse 
How Yule was kept, how maidens tossed the hay, 

nd how bells rang upon a wedding day. 



152 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

But they grew brighter when the evening star 
First trembled over the still glowing wave, 

That bathed In ruddy light, mast, sail, and spar ; 
For then, reclined in rest that twilight gave, 

With him who served for father, friend, and guide, 

She sat upon the deck at eventide. 

Then turned towards the west, that on her hair 
And her young cheek shed down its tender glow, 

He taught her many things with earnest care 

That he thought fitting a young maid should know, 

Told of the good deeds of the worthy dead, 

And prayers devout, by faithful martyrs said. 

And many psalms he caused her to repeat 

And sing them, at his knees reclined the while, 

And spoke with her of all things good and meet. 
And told the story of her native Isle, 

Till at the end he made her tears to flow. 

Rehearsing of his royal master's woe. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 15^ 

And of the stars he taught her, and their names, 
And how the chartless mariner they guide ; 

Of quivering light that in the zenith flames, 
Of monsters in the deep sea caves that hide ; 

Theri changed the theme to fairy records wild. 

Enchanted moor, elf dame, or changeling child. 

To her the Eastern lands their strangeness spread, 
The dark-faced Arab in his long blue gown, 

The camel thrusting down a snake-like head 

To browse on thorns outside a walled white town, 

Where palmy clusters rank by rank upright 

Float as in quivering lakes of ribbed light. 

And when the ship sat like a broad-winged bird 
Becalmed, lo, lions answered in the night 

Their fellows, all the hollow dark was stirred 
To echo on that tremulous thunder's flight. 

Dying in weird faint moans ; — till look ! the sun 

And night, and all the things of night, were done. 
7* 



154 TEE TWO MARGARETS. 

And they, toward the waste as morning brake, 
Turned, where, inisled in his green watered land, 

The Lybian Zeus lay couched of old, and spake. 
Hemmed in with leagues of furrow-faced sand — 

Then saw the moon (like Joseph's golden cup 

Come back) behind some ruined roof swim up. 

But blooming childhood will not always last. 
And storms will rise e'en on the tideless sea ; 

His guardian love took fright, she grew so fast. 
And he began to think how sad 'twould be 

If he should die, and pirate hordes should get 

By sword or shipwreck his fair Margaret. 

It was a sudden thought ; but he gave way. 
For it assailed him with unwonted force ; 

And, with no more than one short week's delay, 
For English shores he shaped the vessel's course ; 

And ten years absent saw her landed now. 

With thirteen summers on her maiden brow. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 155 

And so he journeyed with her, far Inland, 

Down quiet hmes, by hedges gemmed with dew, 

Where wonders met her eye on every hand, 
And all was beautiful and strange and new — 

All, from the forest trees in stately ranks, 

To yellow cowslips trembling on the banks. 

All new — the long-drawn slope of evening shades, 

The sweet solemnities of waxing light. 
The white-haired boys, the blushing rustic maids, 

The ruddy gleam through cottage casements bright, 
The green of pastures, bloom of garden nooks, 
And endless bubbling of the water-brooks. 

So far he took them on through this green land, 
The maiden and her nurse, till journeying 

They saw at last a peaceful city stand 

On a steep mount, and heard its clear bells ring. 

High were the towers and rich with ancient state, 

In its old wall enclosed and massive gate. 



156 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

There dwelt a worthy matron whom he knew, 
To whom in time of war he gave good aid, 

Shielding her household from the plundering crew 
When neither law could bind nor worth persuade 

And to her house he brought his care and pride, 

Aweary with the way and sleepy-eyed. 

And he, the man whom she was fain to serve, 
Delayed not shortly his request to make. 

Which was, if aught of her he did deserve. 
To take the maid, and rear her for his sake, 

To guard her youth, and let her breeding be 

In womanly reserve and modesty. 

And that same night into the house he brought 
The costly fruits of all his voyages — 

Rich Indian gems of wandering craftsmen wrought, 
Long; ropes of pearls from Persian palaces. 

With ingots pure and coins of Venice mould, 

And silver bars and bags of Spanish gold ; 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 1 57 

And costly merchandise of far-off lands, 
And golden stuffs and shawls of Eastern dye, 

lie gave them over to the matron's hands, 
With jewelled gauds, and toys of ivory, 

To be her dower on whom his love was set,— 

His dearest child, fair Madam Margaret. 

Then he entreated, that if he should die, 

She would not cease her guardian mission mild. 

Awhile, as undecided, lingered nigh. 
Beside the pillow of the sleeping child. 

Severed one wandering lock of wavy hair, 

Took horse that night, and left her unaware. 

And It was long before he came again — 
So long that Margaret was woman grown ; 

And oft she wished for his return in vain. 
Calling him softly in an undertone ; 

Repeating words that he had said the while, 

And striving to recall his look and smile. 



15S THE TWO MARGARETS. 

If she had known — oh, if she could have known — • 
The toils, the hardships of those absent years — 

How bitter thraldom forced the unwilling groan — 
How slavery wrung out subduing tears, 

Not calmly had she passed her hours away. 

Chiding half pettishly the long delay. 

But she was spared. She knew no sense of harm, 
While the red flames ascended from the deck ; 

Saw not the pirate band the crew disarm, 

Mourned not the floating spars, the smoking wreck. 

She did not dream, and there was none to tell, 

That fetters bound the hands she lOved so well. 

Sweet Margaret — withdrawn from human view. 
She spent long hours beneath the cedar shade, 

The stately trees that in the garden grew. 
And, overtwined, a towering shelter made ; 

She mused among the flowers, and birds, and bees, 

In winding walks, and bowering canopies ; 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 1 59 

Or wandered slowly through the ancient rooms, 
Where oriel windows shed their rainbow gleams ; 

And tapestiiecThangings, wrought in Flemish looms, 
Displayed the story of King Pharaoh's dreams ; 

And, come at noon because the well was deep. 

Beautiful Rachel leading down her sheep. 

At last she reached the bloom of womanhood. 
After five summers spent in growing fair ; 

Her face betokened all things dear and good, 
The light of somewhat yet to come was there 

Asleep, and waiting for the opening day. 

When childish thoughts, like flowers, would drift away, 

O ! we are far too happy while they last ; 

We have our good things first, and they cost naught 
Then the new splendor comes unfathomed, vast, 

A costly trouble, ay, a sumptuous thought. 
And will not wait, and cannot be possessed. 
Though infinite yearnings fold it to the breast. 



l6o THE TWO MARGARETS. 

And time, that seemed so long, is fleeting by. 
And life is more than life ; love more than love ; 

We have not found the whole — and we iflust die — 
And still the unclasped glory floats above. 

The inmost and the utmost faint from sight, 

For ever secret in their veil of light. 

Be not too hasty in your flow, you rhymes, 
For Margaret is in her garden bower ; 

Delay to ring, you soft cathedral chimes, 
And tell not out too soon the noontide hour : 

For one draws nearer to your ancient town, 

On the green mount down settled like a crown. 

He journeyed on, and, as he neared the gate, 
He met with one to whom he named the maid, 

Inquiring of her welfare, and her state. 

And of the matron in whose house she stayed. 

** The maiden dwelt there yet," the townsman said ; 

" But, for the ancient lady, — she was dead." 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. i6t 

He further said, she was but little known, 

Although reputed to be very fair, 
And little seen (so much she dwelt alone) 

But with her nurse at stated morning prayer ; 
So seldom passed her sheltering garden wall. 
Or left the gate at quiet evening fall. 

Flow softly, rhymes — his hand is on the door; 

Ring out, ye noonday bells, his welcoming — 
" He went out rich, but he returneth poor ; " 

And strong — dow something bowed with suffering. 
And on his brow are traced long furrowed lines, 
Earned in the fight with pirate Algerines. 

Her aged nurse comes hobbling at his call ; 

Lifts up her withered hand in dull surprise, 
And, tottering, leajls him through the pillared hall ; 

" What ! come at last to bless my lady's eyes ! 
Dear heart, sweet heart, she's grown a likesome maid — 
Go, seek her where she sitteth in the shade." 



l6o THE TWO MARGARETS. 

And time, that seemed so long, is fleeting by, 
And life is more than life ; love more than love ; 

We have not found the whole — and we iflust die — 
And still the unclasped glory floats above. 

The inmost and the utmost faint from sight, 

For ever secret in their veil of light. 

Be not too hasty in your flow, you rhymes, 
For Margaret is in her garden bower ; 

Delay to ring, you soft cathedral chimes. 
And tell not out too soon the noontide hour : 

For one draws nearer to your ancient town. 

On the green mount down settled like a crown. 

He journeyed on, and, as he neared the gate, 
He met with one to whom he named the maid, 

Inquiring of her welfare, and her state. 

And of the matron in whose house she stayed. 

" The maiden dwelt there yet," the townsman said ; 

"But, for the ancient lady, — she was dead." 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. i6t 

He further said, she was but little known, 

Although reputed to be very fair, 
And little seen (so much she dwelt alone) 

But with her nurse at stated morning prayer ; 
So seldom passed her sheltering garden wall, 
Or left the gate at quiet evening fall. 

Flow softly, rhymes — his hand is on the door; 

Ring out, ye noonday bells, his welcoming — 
" He went out rich, but he returneth poor ; '* 

And strong — dow something bowed with suffering. 
And on his brow are traced long furrowed lines, 
Earned in the fight with pirate Algerines. 

Her aged nurse comes hobbling at his call ; 

Lifts up her withered hand in dull surprise, 
And, tottering, leads him through the pillared hall ; 

" What ! come at last to bless my lady's eyes ! 
Dear heart, sweet heart, she's grown a likesome maid — 
Go, seek her where she sUteth in the shade." 



164 THE TWO MARGARET a, 

Down tlie long river of life how, cast adrift, 
She urged him on, still on, to sink or swim ; 

And all at once, as if a veil did lift. 

In the dead time of the night, and bare to him 

The want in his deep soul, he looked, was dumb, 

And knew himself, and knew his time was come. 

In the dead time of the night his soul did sound 
The dark sea of a trouble unforeseen, 

For that one sweet that to his life was bound 
Had turned into a want — a misery keen ; 

Was born, was grown, and wounded sorely cried 

All 'twixt the midnight and the morning tide. 

He was a brave man, and he took this thing 
And cast it from him with a man's strong hand ; 

And that next morn, with no sweet altering 
Of mien, beside the maid he took his stand, 

And copied his past self till ebbing day 

Paled its deep western blush, and died away. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 1 65 

« 
And then he told her that he must depart 

Upon the morrow, witli the earliest light ; 
And it displeased and pained her at the heart, 
And she went out to hide her from his sight 
Aneath the cedar trees, where dusk was deep. 
And be apart from him awhile to weep 

And to lament, till, suddenly aware 

Of steps, she started up as fain to flee, 
And met him in the moonlight pacing there, 

Who questioned with her why her tears might be, 
Till she did answer him, all red for shame, 
*' Kind sir, I weep — the wanting of a name." 

" A name ! " quoth he, and sighed. " I never knew 
Thy father's name ; but many a stalwart youth 

Would give thee his, dear child, and his love too. 
And count himself a happy man forsooth. 

Is there none here who thy kind thought hath won ? ** 

But she did falter, and made answer, '' None." 



1 66 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

• 
Then, as in father-like and kindly mood, 

He said, " Dear daughter, it would please me well 
To see thee wed ; for know it is not good 

That a fair woman thus alone should dwell." 
She said, " I am content it should be so. 
If when you journey I may with you go." 

This when he heard, he thought, right sick at heart* 
Must I withstand myself, and also thee? 

Thou, also thou ! must nobly do thy part ; 

That honor leads thee on which holds back me. 

No, thou sweet woman ; by love's great increase, 

I will reject thee for thy truer peace. 

Then said he, " Lady ! — look upon my face ; 

Consider well this scar upon my brow ; 
I have had all misfortune but disgrace ; 

I do not look for marriage blessings now. 
Be not thy gratitude deceived. I know 
Thou think'st it is thy duty — I will go I 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 167 

•' I read thy meaning, and I go from hence, 
Skilled in the reason ; though my heart be rude, 

[ will not wrong thy gentle innocence, 
Nor take advantage of thy gratitude. 

But think, while yet the light these eyes shall bless, 

The more for thee — of woman's nobleness." 

Faultless and fair, all in the moony light, 
As one ashamed, she looked upon the ground, 

And her white raiment glistened in his sight. 
And, hark ! the vesper chimes began to sound, 

Then lower yet she drooped her young, pure cheek, 

And still was she ashamed, and could not speak. 

A swarm of bells from that old tower overhead. 

They sent their message sifting through the boughs 

Of cedars ; when they ceased his lady said, 
" Pi ay you forgive me," and her lovely brows 

She lifted, standing in her moonlit place, 

And one short moment looked him in the face. 



l68 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Then straight he cried, " () sweetheart, think all one 
As no word yet were said between ns twain, 

And know thou that in this I yield to none — 

I love thee, sweetheart, love thee ! " So full fain, 

While she did leave to silence all her part. 

He took the gleaming whiteness to his heart — 

The white-robed maiden with the warm white throatj 
The sweet white brow, and locks of umber flow, 

Whose murmuring voice was soft as. rock-dove's note, 
Entreating him, and saying, " Do not go ! " 

" I will not, sweetheart ; nay, not now," quoth he, 

** By faith and troth, I think thou art for me ! " 

And so she won a name that eventide. 

Which he gave gladly, but would ne'er bespeak, 

And she became the rough sea-captain's bride, 
Matching her dimples to his sunburnt cheek J 

And chasing from his voice the touch of care, 

That made her weep when first she heard it there. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 169 

One year there was, fulfilled of happiness, 

But O ! it went so fast, too fast away. 
Then came that trouble which full oft doth bless — 

it wa& the evening of a sultry day. 
There was no wind the thread-hung flowers to stir, 
Or float abroad the filmy gossamer. 

Toward the trees his steps the mariner bent, 
Pacing the grassy walks with restless feet : 

And he recalled, and pondered as he went. 
All her most duteous love and converse sweet, 

Till summer darkness settled deep and dim. 

And dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. 

The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint — 
Thick leaves shut out the starlight overhead ; 

While he told over, as by strong constraint 
Drawn on, her childish life on shipboard led. 

And beauteous youth, since first low kneeling there, 

With folded hands she lisped her evening prayer. 



'7° THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Then he remembered how, beneath the shade, 
She wooed him to her with her lovely words, 

While flowers were closing, leaves in moonlight played 
And in dark nooks withdrew the silent birds. 

So pondered he that night in twilight dim. 

While dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. 

The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint — 
When, in the darkness waiting, he saw one 

To whom he said — " How fareth my sweet saint? ** 
Who answered — " She hath borne to you a son ; " 

Then, turning, left him, — and the father said, 

" God rain down blessings on his welcome head ! " 

But Margaret ! — she never saw the child. 

Nor heard about her bed love's mournful wails ; 

But to the last, with ocean dreams beguiled. 

Murmured of troubled seas and swelling sails ^ 

Of weary voyages, and rocks unseen, 

And distant hills in sight, all calm and green. . . • 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. l7l 

Woe and alas ! — the times of sorrow come, 
And make us doubt if we were ever glad i 

So utterly that inner voice is dumb, 

Whose music through our happy days we had ! 

So, at the touch of grief, without our will. 

The sweet voice drops from us, and all is still. 

Woe and alas ! for the sea-captain's wife — • 
That Margaret who in the Xebec played — 

She spent upon his knee her baby life ; 

Her slumbering head upon his breast she laid. 

How shall he learn alone his years to pass ? 

How in the empty house ? — woe and alas ! 

She died, and in the aisle, the minster aisle, 

They made her grave ; and there, with fond intent, 

Her husband raised, his sorrow to beguile, 
A very fair and stately monument : 

Her tomb Cthe careless vergers show it yet), 

The mariner's wife, his love, his Margaret. 



17^ THE TWO MARGARETS. ^'^ 



^^-^ A^; 



A woman's figure, with the eyelids closed, " '^ 

The quiet head declined in slumber sweet ; „/- 

Upon an anchor one fair hand reposed, 
And a long ensign folded at her feet, 

And carved upon the bordering of her vest 

The motto of her house — " J^e fiibetfi rest." 

There is an ancient window richly fraught 

And fretted with all hues most rich, most bright, 

And in its upper tracery enwrought 

An olive-branch and dove wide-winged and white, 

An emblem meet for her, the tender dove. 

Her heavenly peace, her duteous earthly love. 

Amid heraldic shields and banners set, 

In twisted knots and wildly-tangled bands, 

Crimson and green, and gold and violet. 
Fall soflly on the snowy sculptured hands ; 

And, when the sunshine comes, full sweetly rest 

The dove and olive-branch upon her breast. 



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